by Kaleigh Way
by Kaleigh Way
You sit in a different way when you're exhausted. Normally, your body, your arms, your legs sit lightly on a chair. Your muscles, your energy still hold you up. You lift your arms to gesture, you cross your legs, you tilt your head, you talk. It's no big deal.
When you're exhausted, you hang on the chair, the way a wet shirt hangs on a coat hanger. You don't move at all. Your arms, your legs, your back are held up by nothing but the chair. Your muscles have given up. The only force you feel is gravity, and the only thing between you and the ground is the chair.
That was me today. I didn't realize how tired I was until Aggie set a lawn chair in the shade near her orange grove and told me to sit. Then she placed a basket of fresh-picked oranges on a little table to my left. "I know how much you love them," she said, as she took my hand and nestled an orange into my palm.
"Thanks."
"The drive down really wore you out," she observed.
"It did," I agreed. "I know four hours is nothing by California standards, but..."
"Crazy, huh?" Aggie said with a sympathetic smile. "Well, you just take it easy here. If you want to lie down inside, you know where the couch is. And if you want to stay the night, I have plenty of room."
Kristy Anne gave me a look that said It's probably a good idea, but you're the one driving...
"Thanks, but no," I told Aggie. "We've got to get moving in a couple of hours."
"Okay, Freddy Boy. If you change your mind..." Then she and Kristy Anne turned and walked a few yards off, to where the girls were playing with Aggie's golden retriever.
I held the orange for a while, feeling the weight of it in my hand, before I slowly sank my nails into the skin. After ripping the peel off in a single piece, I tossed it on the ground to my right. There's nothing like oranges, fresh from the tree. Supposedly, Exeter has the best navel oranges on earth. At the moment, I believed it. This one, for example, had a perfect balance between tart and sweet. It was juicy, but not messy.
I must have made some appreciative noise, because Aggie suddenly turned to give me an inquiring look. I shook my head to signal that it was nothing. She smiled and turned away.
Nice lady, that Aggie. For a woman in her fifties, she has quite a fine behind. Too bad she's my wife's best friend, I thought. Not that I would ever cheat on Kristy Anne! But if Kristy Anne died before me... Aggie would be first on my list.
No, it would be better to put her second on my list. Whoever came first would be a sort of rebound relationship, if that's the right word. It wouldn't work out. If I wanted a real chance with Aggie, I'd have to put her *second* on the list.
Soon I was lost in daydreams, imagining Aggie naked. Safely behind my sunglasses, I tried to subtract her clothes and get an accurate a picture of what lay beneath. I pictured me and Aggie naked, waking up in a white bed on a sun-filled morning — and what the hell, I might as well imagine myself 30 years younger. At the same time, my mind was running through the catalog of Kristy Anne's other friends, and other women I knew. I had to settle the question of who should be number one, the rebound relationship... someone with dark hair, for sure. Long, dark hair.
But then, the thought came, How would Kristy Anne die? and then How on earth could I ever wish that she would die? It stopped me cold. The daydreams folded up and disappeared, leaving me back in the orange grove with half an orange in my hand. In any case, it could never happen, any of it: the first choice, the second choice, me and Aggie... none of it. Kristy Anne wouldn't die first, and I wouldn't need to be consoled.
I popped two more sections of the orange into my mouth, and looked at the women. Why were they standing in the sun, on a blazing hot day like today? It was just after noon; the sun couldn't be any higher or hotter. The temperature was well over a hundred degrees. How could they stand it? Mad dogs and California women, I told myself, and the craziest of all had to be Dexie, my daughter's best friend.
She was dressed completely in black — in black, on a hot mid-summer day! — black sneakers, black jeans, and a black t-shirt that read
But who was it directed to? Me? I didn't think so. Could be, though. I'd like to think it's directed at Fate, or God, or Life, or whatever it was that stuck her with that fucked-up family of hers. I had to watch myself... if I thought about it too much, soon I'd be shaking with rage. How on earth could people bring a child into the world and not care for her? I wondered: if Dexie didn't have an older sister to give her hand-me-downs, would her parents bother to buy her clothes at all?
Dexie has two older sisters and two younger brothers. She's smack dab in the middle, and for some idiotic reason, her parents don't care about her. At all.
She's at our house a lot, which is fine. The first two times she slept over, Kristy Anne called her parents to make sure it was okay. The third time, she asked me, "Will you call this time?"
"You know what?" her mother told me. "Don't call again. I told your wife. I'm sure Dexie's fine. We trust you."
That's what she said, but what I heard was Why are you bothering me? I could not care less.
I opened my mouth to say, But, if I don't call you, you don't know where she is! What if she wasn't with us?
She hung up before I could even start.
Kristy Anne told me, "That's why I didn't want to call her. The father is just as bad." She shook her head, which (for Kristy Anne) was as good as saying They're assholes. "Dexie always told me not to call, but I didn't believe her."
"Then why did you ask me to call?"
"I wanted to see if you got the same response."
I went into the basement, put on my gloves and pounded on the heavy bag until my arms were tired and I was dripping in sweat. It didn't take long. Then I sat in the shower wondering. Was there anything I could do?
"Do you think they abuse her?" I asked Kristy Anne later.
"No," she replied. "Yes. No and yes. As far as I can tell, they don't hit her. They don't verbally abuse her. They don't touch her, or talk to her , or interact with her at all. They just ignore her. She has to get her own food and wash her own clothes. She's like a stranger in her own home."
"Do they feed the other kids? and wash their clothes?"
Kristy Anne nodded her head. "They treat the other kids the way that children are supposed to be treated. But Dexie... well, they don't throw her out. That's the extent of their affection."
"That is so messed up! How they be like that?"
Kristy Anne shrugged. "I wonder sometimes... if it's the father..."
"What?" I asked impatiently. "What about the father?"
"Have you ever seen that family? The mother and the other kids have this flat, black hair. The father has dark brown hair—"
The hair? "Oh!" I said, getting it. "And Dexie's got those frizzy, reddish-blonde curls! You don't think—"
Kristy Anne nodded. "I'm guessing the father had an affair..."
"So, where's the mother?"
Kristy Anne shrugged.
"Could we call child services?" I proposed.
"And tell them what? I don't think they'd do anything. I don't think they can. She's fed, she's clean, she goes to school..."
I wish I could say that Dexie was a sweet, lovable child, but I can't. It's not that there's anything wrong with Dexie; she's not a bad kid. She's like an empty cardboard box. It's not even that she's closed-off emotionally; there's just nothing there. The kids at school, even Carla — her best friend — call her The Strange Girl, and oddly enough Dexie seems to like the name.
Dexie was twelve when we first met her. Over the next six years she became our unofficial part-time child. She started showing up at the dinner table, spending the weekend, and soon she was sleeping at our house at least four nights a week. It made me pretty uncomfortable, but I would have felt worse if we didn't let her stay.
Honestly, I don't know why she ever bothered going home.
Since her birthday was so close to Carla's, and since her family did absolutely nothing on that day, Carla's birthday parties was also Dexie's. Carla liked it that way: there were two cakes and more presents, and even if it wasn't all for her, it made it more of a party in Carla's eyes.
Dexie always wore her own clothes, but Kristy Anne bought her toiletries: toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, feminine hygiene products... It just floored me that her family couldn't even do that much.
Dexie spent her holidays with us. She even went on vacations with us! Kristy Anne and I seriously talked about adopting the girl, but neither of us could work up the courage to ask her parents. We were afraid they'd be offended or angry, and cut us off from Dexie.
We gave up the idea while we were driving to Yosemite. Carla, who had no idea of our intentions, asked Dexie out of the blue whether she'd like to be adopted.
"No," Dexie replied. "I can't give up my family."
Kristy Anne and I locked eyes, and an anguished Why? hung in the air between us.
Now that Dexie had finally turned eighteen, she was at long last going to meet her mother, who lived in Spokane. In fact, she was going to live with her, at least for a while. I don't know why the mother waited for Dexie's majority before she called; maybe it was just a coincidence. In any case, Dexie was very excited. It was the first time in her life that I'd seen her display any emotion at all. She went from expressionless to beaming in a single day.
At the same time, her hair somehow changed from frizzy to shiny. "It's just conditioner, Fred," Kristy Anne explained, but to me it seemed to reflect a huge psychological shift inside the girl.
Both Kristy Anne and I were dying to see this woman, to meet her. By this time, we almost felt as though Dexie was one of our own — I mean, she was practically our daughter, even if *she* didn't feel that way.
And so, we extended my trip to Seattle with an eight-hour (round trip) detour west to Spokane.
And while we were at it, Kristy Anne stuck another eight-hour detour south to Exeter, to visit her old friend Aggie.
It didn't make any sense, but hey! I'm retired. I took the changes with what I like to think is a certain fatalistic aplomb. Anyway, I don't mind driving, and since it was likely to be my last long drive, it might as well be memorable.
I finished the orange and wiped my fingers on a napkin. As I did, a sudden erratic movement caught my attention — something in the corner of my eye. Down on the ground, something was moving. It was a dot (maybe a big fly?): stark black against the white inside of my discarded orange peel. But it didn't move like a fly. It zigzagged like... like the red dot from a laser pointer. Except that this dot was black. Deep black. It was like someone was aiming a black-hole pointer and shaking it. I couldn't imagine what in the world I was seeing.
As I watched and wondered, the dot grew bigger. It was fascinating... downright amazing, in fact. Then, with an abrupt jerk, the dot suddenly rushed directly toward me, growing larger and larger. At the same time, I had the feeling of being wrapped and covered by a wave of thick black cotton. The black dot filled my entire field of vision, blocking out the light...
The next thing I knew I was waking up. "Uh," was all I could manage to say, and gradually the world came back into focus. I felt grass under my fingers: I was lying on the ground. Kristy Anne was on her knees next to me, and Aggie was standing near my feet, looking down at me. Carla had the fingers of her right hand in her mouth, and she looked frightened.
"What happened?" I asked.
"You fainted," Aggie told me.
"No, no," I protested.
"You did, honey," Kristy Anne assured me.
"That's not it," I insisted, in a sleepy, slurred voice. "When we speak of this, can we *please* say that I passed out? Fainting is for girls."
Kristy Anne scoffed in disgust and turned away. I tried to turn my eyes up, to look above my head, because someone was resting her palms on my temples. It felt pretty nice. "Who's up there?" I asked.
"It's me." Dexie replied, and her upside-down face appeared in the air above me. I realized that she was kneeling, and my head was resting on her lap. I blinked at her a few times. It was so unusual to see her smile, I was pleased and confused at the same moment.
When I felt well enough to stand, Carla and Dexie disappeared with Aggie's dog into the orange grove. Aggie, Kristy Anne, and I made our way into Aggie's kitchen, where I sipped a big glass of tonic water, and felt immensely better.
"Do you want to see a doctor?" Aggie asked.
"I've already seen one," I replied.
"When?" Kristy Anne asked.
"Monday," I replied. "Three days ago."
"And what did he say?"
"He wants to do some tests next Tuesday."
"What kind of tests?"
"Stress test, tilting table, EKG, ultrasound."
"Ultrasound? Of what?"
"Of my heart," I replied, feeling a like a heel as I said it, and glad Aggie was there to prevent Kristy Anne from going into meltdown.
"Of your heart?" Kristy Anne cried. "And when were you going to tell me?"
"Wednesday," I replied truthfully. "I didn't want to worry you over nothing."
"Over nothing?" she echoed. "I'm your wife: I'm *supposed* to worry over nothing!"
"Don't get all bent out of shape," I said.
"Did you go to the doctor because you were passing out?"
"Yes."
"How many times has it happened?"
"Three," I said.
"Counting today?"
"No."
Kristy Anne put her hand over her mouth, thinking. "You're not driving home," she told me.
"Then who's going to drive?" I asked. "You?"
"No," she said. "Dexie can drive."
"Like hell she will!" I replied.
Despite Aggie's repeated offer to let us stay the night, I insisted on pushing off at five o'clock, as we'd originally planned. We'd have about four hours of daylight; we could even sleep at home before starting off in the morning. I'd never seen Dexie drive, so I wanted to sit up front, next to her, but Carla wanted the honors.
"Besides," Kristy Anne pointed out, "if you fai— pass out again, it could scare the life out of her. If you're in the back, with me, she might not even notice that it's happened."
I almost wished out loud that Kristy Anne or even Carla could drive, but that would only open old wounds. Kristy Anne's legally blind; Carla's an epileptic, but she could drive. Her seizures were always mild, and are under control. We've been appealing the denial, but in the meantime, I'm the only driver in the family.
Now, my unpredictable fainting spells have taken me from behind the wheel.
Whoa! A thought suddenly struck me: How would we get home from Spokane? Dexie could drive us up there, but once there, who would drive us home?
Aw, hell. I decided to cross that bridge when we came to it. Maybe I should just sign the car over to Dexie. The three of us invalids could fly back home.
Of course, we didn't leave Aggie's house at five. We didn't leave until nine, when it was already dark.
Dexie didn't mind driving at night. It turned out that Dexie was, in fact, not a bad driver. A little cautious, maybe, but cautious is good.
And what happened on the trip was in no way her fault. I think she did as well as she could. I don't think I could have done any better if I'd been behind the wheel. If it was anyone's fault — which it wasn't — it was mine.
We were still inside Exeter city limits when we first saw the lights.
"Is that some kind of truck?" Dexie asked. "The lights are blinding me! I'm going to pull over and let him pass."
"Good idea," I said, turning my head to see. The lights were so bright, I had to close my eyes. Kristy Anne's face — and pretty much everything else in the car — looked intensely red. "How can headlights that bright even be legal?" I wondered aloud, and silently I thought Red? Red headlights?
Dexie pulled onto the shoulder, and so did whoever was following us. They sat there, bathing us in the intense, megawatt glow. The lights were as intense as those huge things they use to light sports events. It was way too much!
"They're not pulling around me," Dexie said, frightened.
"Assholes," Carla growled. She rolled down her window and waved the driver around, but the driver didn't move.
"You know what, Dexie?" I said, in as calm and soothing a voice as I could manage, "Do a U-turn here, and head back to Aggie's house. Okay? Everything's going to be fine."
"All right," she agreed, and slowly and carefully took the turn. I wanted to tell her to hurry, since we were on a two-lane highway, but I was afraid to upset her further. In any case, there was no other traffic. As she turned, we got out of the path of those stark, red highbeams, and the darkness was a relief.
I turned to look at the truck, but there was nothing to see. "What the—" I began.
"Who was it?" Carla asked. "I don't see anything!"
"Neither do I," Kristy Anne agreed. "That was weird!"
Dexie kept her eyes on the road, her shoulders hunched, a firm grip on the wheel.
"You okay, Dexie?" I asked.
"Yeah," she replied tersely.
I turned to give a good look at the road. It was a dark, unlit highway, but I could see well enough to tell that there was nothing on the road behind us. I've got good night vision for an old guy.
"Anybody back there?" Kristy Anne asked in a low voice.
"Nobody. Nothing."
She nodded, and I turned to face front. Almost immediately, the lights returned.
"He's back!" Dexie cried. She sped up; he stayed on our tail. She tapped her brakes; he didn't swerve or slow up. She slowed to a crawl; he matched her speed. Dexie turned the rear-view mirrors so the light didn't shine in her eyes.
"I don't know what to do, Mr. Holderlin!" she cried.
"You're doing fine," I replied. "If you want to pull over and let me drive, go ahead."
"No, I'm alright," she said. "I'm kind of afraid of stopping."
To tell the truth, so was I. As we drove on, I called 911 and reported what was happening. After putting me briefly on hold, the operator told me to continue driving and that the police would be with us shortly.
"Just concentrate on maintaining your speed," I told Dexie. "You're doing fine."
"What if he rams us?" she asked, frightened.
I didn't know what to say, except to tell her that the police would soon be there.
We continued for five more minutes, when suddenly the lights veered off to the right, into a field, and vanished. Inevitably, the trooper drove up just after the lights had vanished.
He came, shined his flashlight on all of us, and asked for Dexie's license and the car's registration. "Anyone have any alcohol or drugs of any kind today?"
"No," I said. "In any case, the problem wasn't us. It was the other driver."
"I understand,sir," he replied. "Is she your daughter?" he asked, indicating Dexie.
"No," I said. "A family friend."
"Could you get out of the car, sir?" he asked.
"Why?"
"I want to talk to you a moment."
I opened the door and stepped into the cool, dry night air. The trooper walked into the space between our car and his, and I followed.
Now I could see that we were stopped next to an orchard. "The lights went off that way, you said?" I nodded. "Can I ask why you're not driving? That little girl is scared to death."
I ran though the list of medical reasons, and he nodded. "Could you follow us back to our friend's house?" I asked. "It isn't far."
"Sorry," he said. "But I've got another call. Listen: you'll be alright. These lights don't hurt anyone. We've had a lot of calls, but all they do is follow."
"What are you talking about?" I asked with a scowl. "Are you saying you're going to let these people get away with frightening and harassing us?"
"There's not a whole lot I can do," the trooper replied in a low voice, obviously embarrassed. "Those lights aren't people. They're UFOs." He didn't spell it; he pronounced it like a word: you-foe.
"You're shitting me," I shot back.
"I kid you not," he said. "Take a look over there." He gestured at the orchard, which was a few yards away.
"What?" I asked, more than a little irritated. "What am I supposed to see?"
"The trees," he said. "There's an orchard here, pretty much as far as you can see. Now you said the lights veered off that way..." He locked eyes, watching me carefully. "Do you get what I'm aiming at, sir?"
"The trees..." I said. "No."
"Yes," he replied.
"No," I repeated. "I saw the lights. We ALL saw the lights, and they swung off THAT way!"
"Into the trees."
"Into the trees! Yes!"
"Sir," the policeman said. "I really shouldn't stay. But if you want me to do it, if you need me to do it, I will drive back with you as far as we have to go to find the point where those lights left the road." He sighed. "I can tell you right now, that we're not going to find anything. No tire marks, no trees broken.
"Mister, there is no way a truck or car or flying set of lights could zoom off the road and not hit a tree."
My shoulders slumped. I glanced back at my car and gave a quick smile to Kristy Anne, who was watching.
"These things are UFOs. Nearly every night we get these calls. I've seen them myself. If you just keep a steady pace, go in a straight line, they'll lose interest and break off. If you try to outrun them, stop and start, make wild turns, they tend to hang on longer."
"You're really not joking," I realized, looking into his face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holderlin," he told me, holding my gaze with his own. "There's nothing I can do, except to assure you that no one has ever been harmed by those things. No one. Just stay calm and reassure that girl." He took a breath. "If you could drive, at least back to your friend's house there, and stay the night, it would be a hell of a lot better. Those UFOs don't come during the day."
We looked at each other in silence for a moment, then he asked me, "Can you tell when one of those fainting spells comes on?"
"Are you sure you can tell when they're coming?" Kristy Anne asked, as I headed north once more. According to the trooper, once we left Exeter, we'd be safe.
"Yeah," I replied. "I see a weird little black dot. If it comes, I'll put the car in park. You can hit the emergency flashers, okay?"
I hadn't driven more than a few minutes, when I saw the dot appear, flying around Kristy Anne's head. I stopped the car and everything went black.
"Just stay steady, straight, and even," I told Dexie for the umpteenth time. "You're doing fine."
"Stop telling me I'm doing fine," she told me through her teeth. "Everybody talk about something else, okay?"
"Okay, great, thanks!" Kristy Anne said. (She was talking into her cell phone.) "I really appreciate it, Aggie. Yeah, right! So at least we're not going crazy!"
"What did she say?" Carla asked.
"She's heard about them. Everybody in Exeter knows about the UFOs. And of course she said we're all more than welcome to sleep over."
"Whoo hoo!" Carla cried. "Hey, Dexie! I got dibs on the top bunk this time!"
"Whatever," Dexie replied.
"So why isn't it in the papers?" I asked. "How come it's not in the news?"
Kristy Anne shrugged. "I didn't ask her. Maybe they don't want to come off as a town full of loonies."
"Hey, Dad," Carla put in, "Maybe the aliens come for the oranges!" She laughed at her own joke.
"I'm glad somebody's happy here," I commented. But I knew why. Carla loved staying at Aggie's house. She considered Aggie her "favorite aunt" even though she was no relation at all.
Everything in the car was peaceful and fine and quiet for a spell, and then the lights came back. Dexie freaked out.
"No! No! NO!" she shouted.
"Just stay calm, Dexie," I said, putting my hands on her shoulders.
"I can't stay calm! Those damn lights are BACK!"
"Okay. Okay. Don't worry about being calm, then. Just drive slowly. Drive slowly in a straight line and they'll get bored. Once they get bored, they'll fly away."
I felt her take two deep breaths, and she kept a good constant speed. I was about to suggest that she set the cruise control, when something happened.
"He got closer!" Dexie shouted. "He's right on my tail!"
"Keep driving slowly," I repeated in a low, slow voice. "Just keep it even, keep it steady. We have to bore them, Dexie. We have to be slow and uninteresting."
My hands were still on her shoulders, and I kept them there. She shifted in her seat and glanced into the mirror. Under my left hand, I felt her pulse racing.
"Deep breaths, Dexie, deep breaths."
She tried to follow my suggestion, but broke off suddenly to swear and cry out in a high-pitched whine. "He's even closer, Mr. Holderlin!" she hissed. "He's on the rear wind— windshield!"
A cold chill shot through me and every hair on my body stood erect. I shot a lightning glance behind me — any more would have been blinding. Dexie was right: the lights were practically touching the rear windshield. Just another micron more and they'd be tapping on the glass. A centimeter more, and they'd be breaking through.
My heart was pounding. Kristy Anne squeezed my right upper arm in a viselike grip. It hurt, but I didn't care. At least it was something I knew for sure was real. In the front seat, Carla was praying out loud. I didn't know she prayed.
Dexie said, "I'm losing it, Mr. Holderlin! I'm losing it! I can't do this! I can't! I can't take the pressure!"
Just then, one of those damned black dots appeared. I saw it from the corner of my right eye, superimposed on the red lights behind us.
"No, no, not now!" I growled. It can't happen now! I told myself in desperation. My family needs me. Dexie needs me. I have to hang on!
"I'm sorry," Dexie whimpered, like a struck dog. It suddenly realized: she thought I was growling at her.
"No, Dexie, no," I said, in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. From behind me, up my back and over my shoulders, crept the sensation of the soft black wool enfolding me, wrapping itself around me. "NO!" I shouted. I would NOT give in! I would not go under.
Unfortunately, my last shouted NO! shot through Dexie like a death knell. In a panic of disappointment, fear, and an overwhelming sense of failure, she slammed her foot down hard on the gas, and never let up. The car jumped at the sudden acceleration and flew down the road.
Like a bat out of hell, I thought. For once, the phrase seemed appropriate.
But I couldn't talk. I hadn't lost consciousness yet, but it was a battle. I gripped Dexie's backrest and squeezed with all my might. I held my breath as long as I could. I tightened every muscle in my body and clenched my teeth down hard on my tongue. Anything to stay awake, anything to stay in the moment.
At first, after Dexie's sudden acceleration, the lights stayed far behind. Then they came zooming up that long, flat road, moving at an impossible, silent, effortless speed.
Up ahead, at right angles to the highway, there was a road — it turned out to be an old packed-dirt road that cut through the fields and disappeared into a copse of trees.
"I'm taking that turn!" Dexie cried, and hit the brakes hard.
The car went into a spin, and another, and another. After the third spin, by some crazy instinct Dexie righted the wheel and we found ourselves looking straight down the dirt road.
She hit the gas again, hard.
I was still struggling to keep conscious, but I was sinking. The darkness was slow but inexorable. Tears formed in my eyes but refused to fall. I felt the car fishtailing; the road must be dusty. Dexie, a city girl, would never expect that. She fought with the wheel, thrashing it back and forth, never slowing down.
With my last moments of awareness, I watched a tree appear before us and grow and grow and grow until it was so big that... Oh! Just before the impact I suddenly recalled... I hadn't fastened my safety belt.
This time when I woke up, I was lying on a hospital gurney. Everything was clean and quiet, and I was surprised by the sensation that I was all in one piece and not in any pain.
"Honey, don't try to move just yet," Kristy Anne's voice said. "I need to talk to you first. No, don't get up. Just lie there and relax, okay?"
She walked into view, and she look okay. She didn't look hurt, anyway. She was walking. "Are you alright?" I asked her. "You look good. Are you okay? How are the kids?"
"Carla's good," she told me. "I'm good. We're better than good."
"And Dexie—?" my voice trailed off as a tear rolled down Kristy Anne's cheek. Her lower lip trembled.
Sobbing, she told me, "Oh, Fred! That poor little girl! She got so banged up."
"So... is she alive?"
"No," Kristy Anne replied, and gave a little sniff. She calmed herself somehow. "Well... no."
"Well... no?" I repeated. "What the hell does that mean?"
Kristy Anne let out a pent-up breath and looked at me. She smiled. "You still haven't asked how you are," she pointed out.
I scoffed. "I can tell that I'm fine... I can feel it. Where's Carla?"
"I'm out here, Dad," Carla's voice called from outside the curtain. "I'm fine. I'll be in in a minute. How are you feeling?"
"I feel good, honey," I said. "I'm sorry about Dexie."
Carla didn't reply. I looked around me, and was puzzled by what I saw.
"Kristy Anne, what hospital is this? Where are we?"
"We're on the flying saucer," she said. "The UFO. They picked us up and fixed us up."
"They did? Then why couldn't they fix Dexie up?" I demanded.
"They did what they could, but she was dead on impact, honey."
I was silent for a few moments, then Kristy Anne said, "You never notice anything, do you?" and shook her head.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Did you get a new haircut or something?" I was joking, of course. She did look different, but I couldn't put my finger on what was new.
"No," she said. "I'm not wearing my glasses."
"Oh, you're not! Did they break? Hey, baby! I've always told you, you're pretty sexy when you take those things off."
"Oh, Dad!" Carla groaned in protest from outside the curtain.
"I don't need them any more," she said. "The aliens fixed my eyes. They fixed Carla's epilepsy, too."
"Wow," I said appreciatively. "I guess they felt bad about running us off the road."
"Yes," she said. "I think they did."
"So what about me? Did they fix my fainting problem?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, they did."
"Oh, nice," I said. "Hey, you know something weird? I don't seem to be able to lift my arms or my head... isn't that weird?" Somehow, the fact didn't disturb me, and that was odd as well. "It's just... weird."
"No, it's not weird. They kind of restrained you," she explained, "and they gave you something to keep you calm."
In spite of whatever calming drug they'd given me, I froze. "Why did they do that? What did they do to me, Kristy Anne? What did they do to me?" Outside the curtain, I heard Carla weeping. Then I understood: she hadn't come in because she couldn't face it — whatever it was — whatever they'd done to me.
"Okay, let me tell you," she said. "When the car hit the tree, Dexie's air bag malfunctioned. First she hit the steering wheel, and *then* the air bag deployed. It threw her back against the seat, and broke her neck.
"You... you, mister don't-need-seat-belts-in-the-back-seat, you flew right out the window — I mean the windshield, and you ah — you ah..." She looked at me thoughtfully. "Let's just say you were not a pretty sight."
In the background, Carla continued weeping.
I swallowed. "So they had a lot of work to do on me, huh?"
"Actually, you were pretty far gone. You were in worse shape than Dexie, except for the fact that she was dead."
"That's a strange way to put it," I said.
"That's exactly how the aliens put it," she countered. "They also said that your insides were a mess. Even before the accident. There was too much to do and they were going to give up."
"They were going to give up on me?"
"Yes."
"And let me die?"
"Yes. But we talked."
It turned out that these particular aliens had never been to earth before. They'd heard about Exeter from other aliens, and decided to check it out for themselves. They didn't expect us to be as backward as we are, and were absolutely astonished that our vehicles weren't equipped with inertial dampeners and gravity-something-ons and other elementary safety features. On their world, there are no collisions because they can't collide.
So, our young aliens were ashamed and alarmed, and apparently afraid of getting in trouble back home.
After a long discussion with Kristy Anne and my tearful daughter, what they decided was this: They had one body, dead but not badly broken, and another, alive but beyond repair. They decided to take the good parts from one and put them into the other.
They repaired Dexie's broken bones, her bruises, and the damage to her soft tissue. Since my body, Fred's body, was beyond repair, they took my mind, my consciousness, my elan or spirit, and put it in her body.
"What?" I asked, and found I could raise my head. "I'm in Dexie's body?" I looked down at my chest, at that stupid black shirt, and read it out loud:
At that, Carla started laughing, and she ran into the room, smiling and weeping at the same time. She fell upon me, and I hugged her. It was as fatherly a hug as I could manage in my present form.
"Hey, Strange Girl... Dad... both of you," she said, in a tentative tone.
"I'm not both her and me, am I?" I asked.
"No," Kristy Anne replied. "You're just you, Fred Holderlin, in poor little Dexie's body."
"Gah!" I cried. "Well, thank God — at least I'm eighteen! I won't have to live with her idiot family." Then the tragedy of it struck me. "Oh, Kristy Anne, that poor girl!"
"And poor me," she replied. "I've lost my husband, and Carla's lost her father. We all lost someone today."
"We have to do something for her," I said.
"I've thought about it," Kristy Anne said. "We're going to have to have a funeral for you, for Fred. But really we'll be mourning Dexie, not you. And every year on this day, we'll remember her."
"Yeah," I breathed. "That poor kid. She never had a chance to live."
"Now you'll have to do that for her," Kristy Anne said.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I have to go meet my mother, don't I?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Chapter One
by Kaleigh Way
We had a hard time convincing the aliens that we didn't want our car repaired. I'm sure they never understood why we wanted it to remain a mess. They kept showing us pictures of how the car would look once they were done: all shiny and new, full tank of gas, all the dents, breaks, and damage gone. "All to the highest levels of current native technology," they said. I can still remember their puzzled expressions when we refused.
It was nothing compared to their reaction to what we wanted them to do with my old body.
The problem was, that if they fixed the car, we would have had a VERY hard time explaining how "Fred" had died. We would have had a car in better-than-new condition, and one very mangled body, obviously killed by a high-impact collision. We knew that the state trooper (and, we supposed, the local police) would probably understand, but I doubt that our insurance company was up to date regarding alien activity on Route 99.
For that reason, we didn't want the aliens to touch the car wreck, not even to fix the tiniest detail.
We also asked them to put my old body back where they'd found it. They were horrified by the request, but they did it.
Full of doubts and misgivings, in the end the aliens did as we asked, and with many a shudder they wished us goodbye and got the hell out of there, as fast as their flying saucer could carry them. I doubt that they ever came back to our planet again.
They took off just before sunrise, and in the growing light we took stock of ourselves.
"Fred" had looked a mangled mess when he was lying on the infirmary table. In the sun, on the grass, he was a heartrending sight. We had to move away from the broken, bleeding body. It was too much to bear.
The rest of us looked great, except for some rips and stains on our clothes.
The state trooper who responded to our call was the same one we'd met last night. He was clearly shaken by what happened to us, and apologized many times over, saying it was "all his fault."
"But, honestly, it's never happened before," he explained. "They've never hurt anyone before. I'm going to talk with my commanding officer to see if there is something we can do for you — not that anything can ever make up for—"
As shaken as he was, the trooper was the one who suggested the line we should take. "I'm sorry to say this, ma'am," he said to Kristy Anne, "But it would be best for all of you if you say your husband was driving. I know it sounds callous, but the insurance company isn't going to believe that you were running from UFOs. Now, if we say that he was doing the driving, then it's simple: he made a wrong turn and hit the gas instead of the brake. End of story. But if you say the girl was driving, she'll end up being charged with vehicular manslaughter, and that can be prosecuted as a felony. And felonies are forever."
As grisly as it sounded, we all agreed. The trooper wrote up our statements, quizzed us on them, and made sure we understood the importance of sticking to our stories.
Then the scene got mighty crowded: the coroner came, an ambulance came, the tow truck came, and more police arrived. The local newspeople showed up as well, though the police kept them at bay. The EMTs checked us over. The police asked us questions and took our statements a second time. As we left, I saw the trooper talking with the coroner.
One of the local police gave us a ride down the dirt road back to the highway, where Aggie was waiting. She brought us back to her house, where we all fell apart. The four of us cried until we were exhausted.
After that, there were phone calls to be made: the insurance company, the coroner, the funeral home, my brother and sister, our close friends... and we had to rent a car to get back home.
"I've got to make the calls," Kristy Anne said. "Like it or not, you're just an eighteen-year-old kid who's not even related."
"I'll say I'm you," I told her, and I began banging down the list. I could handle the business end of my death; Unfortunately, I had to leave the more difficult calls — the ones to friends and family — to Kristy Anne.
After I'd made all the calls on my list, I was itching to get home. There were so many things to do, now that I was dead: there was my life insurance, my 401k... I had to get my name off all our accounts, and there were all my belongings to clean up.
"Oh, there's one more person you need to call," Kristy Anne told me. "Your mother."
"My mother?" I repeated. "My mother's dead."
"Not your mother, dummy, Dexie's mother. Her mother in Spokane. She's expecting you. You need to call her and put off the trip."
I tried to fish in Dexie's bag for the number, but it was so hopelessly full of junk, I ended up dumping the contents on the floor. Among the debris was a scrap of paper with the name "Lizzie Martineau" and a number in the 509 area code. I called the operator and was told that 509 would be right for Spokane. So I dialed the number and got voicemail. The message was the standard, out-of-the-box message. I wasn't sure what to say, so I hung up, composed myself and called again. I told the machine that I was Dexie. I explained about the accident, said I was fine, but that I wasn't sure when I'd be coming. I said I'd be in touch.
That seemed to be all that could be done for now. I smiled at Kristy Anne. She looked at me with a sad look and sighed.
"This is way beyond strange," she said. "I don't think the impact of all these changes has even remotely begun to hit us. It's awful having to tell everyone that you're dead when you're sitting right there, where I can reach out and touch you."
"I know," I said.
"Do you?" she countered. "I don't think you realize that even if you're not really dead, for all intents and purposes, you might as well be."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you understand? We've lost each other. I've lost my husband! You've lost your wife!"
Her words hit me like a Mack truck. "What do you mean? We haven't lost each other! I'm not going anywhere!"
"You are an eighteen-year-old girl, regardless of what you are inside. You're not Fred Holderlin anymore, and you're not Dexie Lane. You're not my husband any more, and I'm not your wife. What's happened to us is worse than any divorce. We're friends now, sure, but for one thing, we can't sleep together anymore."
"Why?"
"It would be too weird," she said. "I'm sorry." She stood up to leave. Then she added, "And think of Carla: she's lost her father and her best friend."
"I'm both now. Can't I be both?"
"No," she said. "It's just not possible."
She stood in silence for a minute or so. Then she drew a deep breath and said, "There is one more phone call to make, but I don't have the energy for it."
"Can I do it?"
"Yes. Can you check our answering machine at home? I can't deal with it right now. I'm off to bed. I'm exhausted, I hope I can sleep. I think Carla left you the bottom bunk." With that, she shuffled out.
I sat alone, looking through the glass doors at the blackness outside. It was hard to not feel guilty about the state of things. Was any of it my fault? I didn't think so, but for some reason I felt that it was. Somehow, it seemed, I'd hurt everyone that I cared about, and I didn't see how to fix it. So, yes, I felt guilty. I felt something else, too: excitement. I fwas swimming in a heady mix of guilt and excitement.
Thank goodness Kristy Anne and Carla had gotten some benefit from the aliens — physically, they were never better. Kristy Anne looked twenty years younger. The excess pounds she'd been carrying were gone, along with her wrinkles and gray hair. She'd gone from being legally blind to not needing glasses at all.
And Carla — her epilepsy was gone, along with some other, more minor issues. Well, minor to me -- probably her issues with digestion and acne were major for her.
So... considering what the two of the gained, it wasn't as though I won the lottery and left everyone else in the poor house.
But I really had won the lottery, hadn't I? I'd been entirely reset: I was back at the beginning of life. Sure, I'd have to learn about being a girl, but how hard would that be? And sure, our family relationships would change... I wasn't sure what they'd be like, but how could it be bad? Maybe Kristy Anne was just tired. I tried to look at myself from her point of view, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't make the mental leap to put myself in their shoes. I sat down and made an effort to imagine how I must seem now to Kristy Anne and Carla. I tried, but I couldn't get there. it was too hard, too foreign. I mean, for Carla — I was still her dad, wasn't I? Inside? And outside, I was her best friend. I knew it was mixed up and messed up, but I thought I could make it work.
Then in a sudden moment, I abruptly felt very, very tired, as if the weight of the day snuck up and settled over me. My brain couldn't think any more; all I wanted to do was drop into bed. I was sure I'd fall asleep in a moment.
But first I dialed our home number and listened to our voicemail messages. I wrote down names and numbers; there was nothing that couldn't wait, and nothing I didn't expect.
Except for one message: it was from Dexie's mother. Not the one in Spokane, but the mother she grew up with. And the message was this:
Dexie, you were supposed to pick up your belongings BEFORE you left for Spokane, but you didn't.
Just remember that trash day is Tuesday, and if any of your stuff is still here, out it goes.
That was it. No hello or goodbye. No humanity or kindness. I felt my fists ball up and my jaw set. A moment ago I was ready to drop into bed and sleep. Now an angry fire burned inside me. I looked at the clock. It was too late to call back, but oh, did I want to.
Chapter Two
by Kaleigh Way
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.
Chapter Three
by Kaleigh Way
I arrived early at the Coffee Cup; I couldn't help it. I was surprised by how much anxiety I felt. I had no idea what Dexie's father — I decided I'd call him Mr. Lane — was going to say, and of course I had a lot of vicarious resentment for the way he'd treated Dexie over the years.
When I entered the Coffee Cup, I did what I always did: I looked up at its bare rafters and the underside of its shake shingles. I loved seeing it, though the lack of insulation made the place cold in winter. But its folksy, organic design wasn't fake. Sure, the wooden barrels, sacks of coffee beans, and crates of tea were all props, but they were the only phonies in the place. I loved the Coffee Cup. It had a warm, welcoming, happy feel.
And it had a nice crowd. It was always a calm, quiet place, and maybe that was why Mr. Lane picked it as a meeting place: so Dexie wouldn't make a scene. Oh well. If that was his strategy, it wasn't going to work. I wasn't going to let a crowd stop me. If I needed to make a scene, believe me, I was going to make a scene. And I was ready.
I scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces, and was surprised to see Mr. Lane, reading the Sunday paper. Why was I surprised? I knew he would be there, but I didn't expect him to be early, and I sure didn't expect him to blend in.
My heart was pounding as I crossed the room. Remember, call him Mr. Lane. Don't smile! Don't give him an inch!
He looked up just as I reached the table, and I heard myself say, "Hi." Inwardly I kicked myself for sounding shy.
I had a difficult time reading him. His face didn't give much away. He didn't look apologetic. He wasn't tense, he wasn't smiling, he wasn't impatient… he looked pretty relaxed, but serious. Maybe this was how he always looked. Who knows? I'd never spent any time with the man. We'd only spoken once on the phone, and I'd only seen him at a distance. The most obvious thing about him was that he'd spent time in the military. If I had to guess, I'd say he was a Marine. (It turned out, I was right.) Aside from that, I couldn't tell anything else from looking at him.
"Hello, Dexie," he said, and gestured to a chair. "Please, have a seat." I sat, and he handed me a menu. "Take your time deciding. Have whatever you like," he said. "It's on me."
I expected him to say It's the least I can do, but he didn't.
I already knew what I wanted. "I'll have the Big Breakfast with the eggs over easy and English muffins instead of toast," I told the waitress. The Big Breakfast wasn't just big — it was enormous! It had everything: pancakes, hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, ham, and French toast. It wasn't that I was hungry: I ordered it because it was the most expensive item on the breakfast menu.
Mr. Lane raised his eyebrows in surprise. I saw him recognize the resentment in my order, but it was my turn to be surprised when he rose to my challenge and told the waitress, "I'll have the same, along with a piping hot cup of coffee. Oh, and fresh-squeezed orange juice for both of us."
Well! I sure didn't expect that!
After the girl went away, Mr. Lane drew an envelope from his pocket. "I have your birth certificate here. I know you've never seen it, and there's a reason. This document is yours, and I'm going to give it to you, but we ought to have a look at it together first, because it needs a bit of explaining."
He spread the document open on the table and flattened it with his palms.
"I don't know what you notice first, but the first thing that strikes me is your name." He put his finger down, pointing. I looked at it, glanced at his face, looked at the name again, and read it out loud. "Ur-Dexina Martineau? Seriously? Is this some kind of joke? What kind of a name is that?"
He opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Your birth-mother chose it," he explained. "You can see her name here: Elizabeth Martineau. I was not around. I would have given you a normal name. But in point of fact, I didn't know you existed until Lizzie brought you here. You were eight weeks old. Well, me and Laurie looked at that name, and I said, No child on earth should go through life with a name like that. We figured Dexie was a compromise. It was as close as we dared come."
"And Lane?" I asked. "Did you adopt me? Or change my name?"
"No," he said. "We just called you Dexie Lane. It was the easiest thing; it avoided a lot of stupid questions. When it was time to sign you up for school, I simply explained the situation to the principal, and the school administration was very helpful. Your diploma — just like your drivers license — reads Dexie Lane. However, if you decide to go with Ur-Dexina Martineau or even Dexie Martineau, the school will re-issue your diploma and you can get a new drivers license."
I frowned, puzzled. "How did you fix the name on my license?"
"Nothing illegal," he said. "I just had to produce some extra documentation and talk to a few people. Do you remember how long it took to get your permit? That was why."
"Huh," I said. I sure didn't anticipate any of this. Martineau was kind of a cool name, but Ur-Dexina sounded like something from outer space.
"Now, for all the more normal elements," he went on, pointing them out, "You see you were born in Spokane, in the hospital and not at home — which I'm very glad of, for your sake — there's your birthday, the doctor's name, etc. But here is the interesting and, I think, the most important part—"
At that point, inevitably, our food arrived, so he carefully folded up the document and put it back in his pocket. After we'd eaten a bit, he set down his fork and took the paper out again. This time he handed it to me. "You'll see it says the father is unknown. Now, *I* — whatever else I was or may have been — I was never unknown. You can see she knew well enough where to find me."
"But," interrupting, I asked, "Why did you keep me? I don't understand this story. If she didn't want me and you didn't want me, why didn't you give me up? Somebody might have adopted me!"
He was silent for a while, and put his hand on his chin. He was clearly trying to get a grip on his emotions. "I'll tell you why," he said. "I know your life hasn't been what you'd like, or maybe what it should have been, but… You have to understand how everything unfolded. Your mother made a big effort to abandon you. She traveled all the way down here from Spokane. Eleven hours by car, and eleven hours back. Without a word of warning, without a call or a letter, she came to my house and knocked on my door. She said, Do you remember me? I said, Yes, I do, and she said This is your baby. She put you in my arms and said, She's yours. You made her, you raise her. Then she got in her car and drove back up North. You can imagine that Laurie was furious. In the beginning I think she wanted to have you around as a living reminder of my infidelity. A stick to hit me with, if you will. But at the same time, Laurie loves babies. And you might not believe this, but when you were a tiny little thing, she loved you like any mamma loves her child.
"But when your brothers came along, she cut you off, and you took it hard. And by that time, of course, we knew, so Laurie wanted to put you out of the house." He drew a heavy sigh and stopped.
My head was spinning. I had weird sense of unreality, as if the whole world around us, the floor and walls and roof had disappeared, and we were floating in a surreal, empty space. Dexie's life was stranger and more complicated than I ever imagined, and the facts were difficult to process. I shook my head, as if that would clarify matters, and then something he said echoed in my brain. I asked him, "What do you mean, we knew? What did you know?"
"Well," he said, "We discovered that you're not my child."
"What!?"
He took a deep breath before going on. "I realize this may be a shock. There never was a good time to tell you, and I invite you to verify this yourself. I will not be offended if you don't believe me. If you want to do a DNA test for paternity at any time, I'll be glad to. I don't expect you to take this on my say-so. But the facts are very simple: blood don't lie. My blood type's AB, and yours is O. If you were my child, you'd be A or B or AB, like me."
"What if my mother was type O?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Anyone can have a child of blood type O — unless one of the parents is type AB. If either parent is type AB, the child cannot be O. Now, doctors have explained this to me, and I've looked it up myself. But I don't want you to take my word for it; I want you to ask, to investigate, to find out for yourself. I'm telling you the truth, but I'll gladly go for a blood test or a DNA test, whenever you like."
I was stunned. "So who is my father?"
"I don't really know," he replied. "But I have a very strong suspicion." He pulled a second envelope from his pocket. The way it bulged, it was obviously full of money. "I'll tell you about that in a moment, but I have something else for you here. I want to give it to you now, because I don't know what your feelings are towards your birth-mother, and you might not like what I have to say about her."
He held the envelope close to his chest as he spoke. "You asked me why I didn't give you up for adoption. Let me tell you, adoption does not always work. It is not always the fairy-tale solution, and often it never happens at all. I don't know the real numbers, but I believe that there are something like half a million kids in foster care in this country. Did you know that?"
"No," I whispered.
"Only a quarter of them are even eligible for adoption, and I don't know how many actually get adopted. But I don't really care about the numbers. The fact is this: I grew up in foster homes. I don't know how many families I went through. I never knew my father. I have a very dim memory of my mother, and I'm not even sure if that memory is real." He stopped to take a deep breath; he pressed his lips tightly together. "I will not tell you what I endured as a child," he told me, "except to say that I would not wish my childhood on any living being."
He struggled for a few moments to keep his emotions in check. Then he went on. "By this time we knew you weren't mine, you weren't a baby anymore. And babies are what people want to adopt. Laurie and I argued and we fought, and we spoke to Child Services. I told them that if they found a couple, that I approved of, that wanted you, then I would let you go. But they told me that the system didn't work like that.
"And that is when Laurie and I struck our bargain: You could stay. Well, you know the rest. You know how you grew, like a stranger in our home."
He looked me in the eyes and said, "I'm not going to say I'm sorry. I wish your life had been different, but at least you didn't bounce from family to family. We don't know what would have happened if you'd gone with Child Services, but I did the best I knew: I made my bargain with Laurie so you could stay. What that cost me is between me and her, but I did it willingly, and if I had to, I would do the same again.
"Now," he said, as he handed me the envelope. "When I was in foster care, the minute I turned 18, they kicked me out. No warning. Nothing but the clothes on my back. Eighteen years old. That's why I went into the military, but I don't think that's the answer for you. I didn't want that to happen to you. So what I did was this: every week you were under my roof, I put away ten dollars for you. Needless to say, Laurie doesn't know about this."
Ten dollars a week. My brain got as far as ten times 52 is $520 a year, but when I tried to multiply $520 times eighteen, I got stuck.
"There's over nine thousand dollars in there," he said. "It might sound like a lot of money, but remember that it's all you've got. You can blow through it in a single day if you're not careful, but you can make it last if you're smart. Money goes out fast when none's coming in." He cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. "That's all the help I can give you. That's it. It may not be fair, but it's a hell of a lot more than I ever got."
"Thanks," I stammered as I shoved the envelope into my bag. I realized that my body was shaking. None of this was what I expected at all.
"Now the last thing," he said. "I can tell you all I know about your birth-mother and the man I think is your birth-father. You can ask me any question you like and I will do my best to answer. If at any time while I'm talking, you want me to stop, I'll stop. If you get upset and run out of this place, no hard feelings. But this is the deal: right now, today, I will give you all the time I can, to answer every question I can. After today, I make no promises. Understood?"
I nodded and said, "Yes."
Chapter Four
by Kaleigh Way
The waitress cleared away our plates and poured Mr. Lane some more coffee. After she left, Mr. Lane picked up his story.
"For the space of four or five months, round about nineteen years ago, I had occasional business up in the Montana, Idaho, Spokane area. One night in Spokane, I met your mother. It was in a diner called The Happy Place. I don't know what she looks like now, but back then she was really something. Her hair is like yours: not as curly, but it's that same golden-red, and she's got the same quirky face you've got.
"She was... vivacious, curvaceous, a little crazy, flighty... definitely up for a little fun." He paused to gauge my reaction, which was neutral. For me, it was just a story. I didn't think of the woman as my mother, so I didn't really care. I understood that he felt he might step on some sensitive nerve about Dexie's feelings toward her birth-mother, but I didn't have those feelings.
Lane continued with his story.
"I'd say one thing led to another, but it didn't really. We fell right into the sack, without any preamble. And it was good. I won't say the best ever. Definitely not as good as Laurie, but—"
"Okay, I get the picture," I said, interrupting. "You had a bouncy bed in Spokane."
"Yes," he said. "Very bouncy. And afterward, she would always talk. The moment I'd lie back and relax, she'd start up. I often felt she was waiting for that moment. Usually I don't like talking after... well, after you-know-what. It puts me off, but...," he paused, feeling the memory as he spoke, "She had — maybe still has — the most beautiful voice. She could be on the radio. Imagine, if you're driving down the long, empty roads they got up there, and you hear that voice... It would be perfect. Even if she only read the traffic and weather, something in you would respond. You'd wonder Who is that woman? I want to know her. Her voice is low and throaty, but it's soft at the same time, and it just flows. Like honey. It's hypnotic. On the other hand, the things she'd talk about, the things she said, were... weird. Crazy. Out there. So far out there. At first I just listened to that low sexy voice. I'd close my eyes and let it wash over me. Sometimes it would get me going again, but more often than not it would carry me off to sleep. Then, one time, it was early in the day and I had lots of energy, so I decided to listen for a change. After that, I was hooked. I got fascinated by the things she said. It was all... just... so out there."
I was irritated by his vagueness. "What do you mean, out there? Out where? What was it, specifically?"
"She had all these ideas about what she called The Secret World: magic, spirits, life after death, séances, psychic powers, all that stuff. Of course, I didn't take any of it seriously. As I said — at first I tuned her out, but once I got caught up and started listening, I'll tell you, it was pretty entertaining. I mean, she believed. She believed in anything and everything. It seemed like she collected weird stories, and she treated them like parts of a single puzzle. It was an extremely complicated puzzle, and I think it was a lot bigger than she could hold in her head. Still, every time she encountered an idea that was out of the ordinary, she'd add it to her collection. For me, it was just a load of fairy tales and nonsense. In her mind, it was as real as rocks and trees. I'd laugh and laugh, but she didn't mind. She'd just keep going. She'd talk for hours until she ran out gas or I'd fall asleep... and none of it ever made a lick of sense. She'd weave this weird, complicated, tumbleweed tapestry of ideas. She'd connect Jesus with the Sphinx. She told me that Mata Hari came from the planet Venus, by way of Atlantis. She claimed that the whole Cuban Missile Crisis was a cover-up for a UFO crash in the Bay of Pigs. It was just... You know when people say You can't make this stuff up? Well, she could.
"You could take any conspiracy theory you know — the Kennedy Assassination, the Trilateral Commission, Pearl Harbor, Roswell — and she wouldn't just go you one better: she had a super-crazy cosmic conspiracy that tied all the others together. This hyper-meta-super-conspiracy of hers would make your everyday conspiracy theory sound like a practical joke by comparison. According to Lizzie, conspiracy theories were created intentionally by a much bigger conspiracy!"
"Which was what?" I asked.
"Damned if I know!" he laughed. "You know how sometimes you hear something explained, and you feel like you've got it, but afterward you can't put it together? You only understand it while the person is talking, but the moment they stop, it evaporates? Well, this stuff was like that, with one big difference: it didn't make any sense from the get-go. I don't know if it even made sense to her. I don't know if she'd notice something not making sense. For instance, she told me the conspiracy theories about the Kennedy Assassination all focused on the wrong thing, and that by missing the point, they added to the distraction."
"Distraction from what?" I asked.
He scoffed and shrugged.
"Don't think I didn't ask!" he replied. "Several times!"
He chuckled. "I have never taken a mind-altering drug," Lane told me, "but after spending time with her, I'm pretty sure I know what it would feel like. After a night of listening to her crazy stories, my brain would overload, and my head would spin like a top for an entire day." He shook his head at the memory. "I'll tell you: she could make you feel that your sanity, your sense of reality — everything you knew and believed to be true — was just like a tiny boat that you were sitting in, and the real reality, which is the world you can't see, surrounds you like a dark, boundless ocean. And then, once you got a sense of how big and unfathomable was this world you didn't know... why then, she'd show you that your boat wasn't real, either... and you'd be lost.
"She could make you doubt your own sanity. For a little while, anyway. She could make you wonder whether all this—" he waved his hand to take in the room and everything in it "—any of this—" he made a larger, then even larger, gesture to include the town, the world, everything "—exists at all. Maybe it's only a dream? And if it is a dream, who's dream is it? Is it my dream? Is it your dream? Is it someone else's dream?"
He paused and looked off in the distance. Evidently, recalling her storytelling powers had brought back that distant, otherworldly sense she used to create. You could see from his face that he was far, far away, sitting in his tiny disappearing boat.
I interrupted his reverie by asking, "And you liked that?"
"Liked what?" he asked.
"You enjoyed feeling that sense of unreality?" He really didn't seem the type.
He drew a deep breath and sat up straighter in his chair. "Well, it was a change from my usual routine," he admitted.
"In any case, it turned out that she was not actually the source of all that craziness. She was getting it all from someone else: her puppet-master, a man she called Benevolence. Once she started mentioning him, I quickly began to lose interest."
"In her, or in her stories?" I asked.
"Both," he said. "Laurie was beginning to suspect that something was up. At the same time, your birth-mother, Lizzie, saw she was losing her grip on me. So she suggested that I come visit the Ark, which was what her group called their headquarters."
"What group?" I asked.
"She was — and probably still is — in some kind of cult. This man Benevolence is their leader. He lives out in the middle of nowhere in a compound they call the Ark."
"You didn't go, did you?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, I did. Big mistake. BIG mistake. Longest six days of my life. And that's one of the things I wanted to warn you: when you meet Lizzie, no matter what she tells you, no matter what you feel for her, no matter what promises she makes, do NOT go to that place. Do not get into a car with her. Do not let anyone take you to her. Stay in Spokane if you like, but do not leave Spokane with her. That 'Ark' place is a trap. They will never let you out, and I don't think someone like you could break out on your own. For them, women are like cattle, and the ones like your mother are bait for men like me."
"Wait a minute," I protested. "Are you saying that she had sex with you to lure you into their cult? That's crazy!"
"It works, though," he said. "She made that place sound like a nonstop, no holds barred orgy, with piles of young, willing women. She painted quite a picture, and I figured that I might as well end the affair on an explosive high note. And, I'd never been to an orgy, so naturally I was curious.
"Of course, the reality was nothing like she said. There were women, yes — young, beautiful women. Things looked very promising, but it was only a promise. A promise they never intended to keep. There'd be reasons... delays... it was always going to happen tomorrow, but — you know what they say: tomorrow never comes. In the meantime, there was work to be done. Manual labor, to tire a body out. All I did was work like a mule and sleep like a dead man. Took me a couple of days to wise up. The moment I met Benevolence, I saw it was all a sham. The man's a charlatan, a liar, a thief, and a dog. But I smiled and shook his hand. I didn't let on that I knew, and that night, I broke out and made my way back to Spokane. If I wasn't a Marine and ready to crack a few heads... if I didn't know how to find my way by night, how hide and survive in the open, I'd still be there. They'd have caught me and dragged me back."
"No," I scoffed. "It's crazy!"
"All I can do is warn you," he said. "But if you go there, at least tell somebody—" he paused "—not me, I'm sorry, but tell somebody where you are. And make sure they are badass enough to bust you out when they don't hear from you.
"Obviously, it would be easier not to go in the first place." He took a bite of toast and swallowed it with some coffee. After a pause, he continued.
"I believe — and this is speculation on my part — but I believe it was Benevolence who told your mother to give you up. Ordered her, more like. Caring for you interfered with her work in town, attracting idiots like me."
I scoffed, more from reflex than anything else, when a thought suddenly struck me.
"You think that Benevolence is my father!"
"Yes, I do," he said. "And I would be willing to bet that that low-life also made babies with the other young women there. I'd say it's highly likely that you are not his only child. But again, that's just speculation on my part." He gave me a serious look, and said, "And closer to that same point, you might ask your mother, when you see her, if she has any other children. You may not be alone. You may have kin."
Chapter Five
by Kaleigh Way
Today was officially the Day of Weird Surprises.
Before today, I honestly believed there was nothing to Dexie's life. I know that it's awful to say, and I'm embarrassed to admit thinking it, but if someone could be a cipher, Dexie was certainly that person. In picking up her life, I wanted to turn it around and make her life mean something. I thought I'd have to make efforts to make her life worthwhile. I believed that I could fill her life with purpose, and by doing so, I'd be honoring her memory and respecting a life that was cut short before she really got to use it.
I never thought I'd need to come to terms with who Dexie *is*. I didn't think she was anyone.
Now, instead of being a zero, Dexie seemed to be the center of an ever-more complex set of connections. Before today, I thought she was the daughter of two jerks, one who abandoned her and one who never cared for her. Instead, she was the child — possibly one of *many* children — of an obscure cult leader and one of his many devoted followers. Not only that: Dexie could have any number of half-siblings and full siblings.
It was creepy and chilling. It was daunting and overwhelming.
The life of Dexie Lane — excuse me, the life of Ur-Dexina Martineau — was like a trunk with a false bottom. No matter which way you looked, it seemed to be empty. Unless you happened to notice that it was too shallow: if you lift the false bottom, the real payload is revealed.
Or better yet, her life was like a magician's trunk: You set it on the stage, and the bottom opens like a trapdoor into a room below. Until you set it down, it looks empty and weighs nothing. But once you open it in the right place, you can step inside and see what's hidden below. A whole parade of people could walk out of that trunk.
The first surprise: Dexie's father wasn't a complete asshole. Clearly, he was trying to be responsible, and his intentions were good. On the other hand, he prevented Dexie from being adopted. Admittedly, we'd never know whether Dexie would have been adopted at all, much less by a family that loved her. Then again, she didn't end up in a family — or a series of families — that treated her worse than the Lanes. That was Lane's single aim: to prevent her from being hurt the way he'd been hurt. Of course, she was hurt in other ways, but in his mind she came out ahead.
The second surprise was the money. I've tried at times to save money in similar ways: a dollar a day, five dollars a week... but at some point, I'd either forget or give up. Or else I'd figure I could pull out the whole sum when I needed it. Unlike me, Lane was constant. He had the idea and stuck with it for eighteen years.
When the sum got as high as nine thousand dollars, he could have kept it. No one knew about the money. It's a lot of money to give away. And yet, he gave it away.
The thing is, Lane is so dispassionately practical. In some ways, he is almost robotic and rule-driven! For him, my turning eighteen automatically ended all his obligations toward me, and cut every tie. Goodbye, here's some money, don't come back. He didn't have to tell me that he wouldn't help me in the future. He'd made it clear by his behavior over the years. I knew I couldn't go to him; he wouldn't be there for me. I wonder whether Dexie would have understood so quickly. Or would she have found out only when she needed help, and he turned her away?
It also made me wonder How well did Dexie understand her situation?. She was smart enough to latch on to us. Had she tried with other friends, other families before us? What would she be doing right now if she'd lived?
I know she would have gone to visit her mother, but she'd have gone without Lane's warnings and without his money. Our unplanned visit to Exeter would have preempted Lane's meeting with Dexie. A shiver ran through me at the thought.
The third surprise was that Lane wasn't even Dexie's father! That really pulled the rug out from under me. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I *did* believe him; it wasn't that. I just couldn't process all the new information.
My problem, I realized, was the question Is Lane was a good man or a bad man?
Then I asked myself, What difference does it make? Do I need to know how much I can blame him? Am I trying to gauge how superior and judgmental I'm allowed to feel? What good would any of it do? I didn't see any remedy for the things that had happened to Dexie. Maybe her spirit was in some kind of afterlife, still suffering from the life she'd had. Who knows. But even if she was, what could I do about it?
If I brought together a complaint in Dexie's name, how would it change anything? I was pretty sure that Lane would listen patiently and politely to my rant, and let me have my say. Once I was done, he'd get up, walk out, and leave it there. Forever.
And what was I supposed to make of this strange "Benevolence" character? And Dexie's flighty mother, Lizzie? And... what if Dexie's life had yet another false bottom? What if I went up to Spokane and found out that there was much more to the story than Lane ever knew? What if I talked to Dexie's mother and ended up more confused than before? I mean, Lane told a good story; it made a lot of sense, but that didn't mean it was the complete, unvarnished truth.
Then it occurred to me that I didn't need to visit Dexie's mother at all. I mean, so what if Dexie's life was more complex and puzzling than I thought? Did I really need to get to the bottom of it? Did I really need to know? What would be the point? What was Lizzie Martineau to me? Nothing. She was no one. What was I to her? A daughter she cast off in infancy. Maybe one of many children cast off in infancy. Did I owe her anything? I didn't think so. If she could ignore me for eighteen years, I could easily pay her back in kind. She wasn't really my mother. Even stone-cold Laurie Lane was more of a mother to Dexie than Lizzie Martineau.
Dexie must have had issues, feelings, and questions about her birth-mother. I remember how elated she was to hear from Lizzie, but even so, none of that had anything to do with me.
"You're very quiet," Lane observed as he drove me home — to the Holderlins' home. "If you've got any more questions, I urge you to ask them now, because I doubt I'll be willing to discuss these matters again."
"Why not?" I asked, more than a little irritated. "What does it cost you?"
"What does it cost me?" he repeated, eyebrows raised. "Time, for one thing. But mainly I don't want to revisit that part of my life. Every moment that I spend there has a negative impact on my family, particularly on my relationship with my wife. I will not jeopardize that. I've done enough damage in the past. Look at this from Laurie's point of view: even though you're not my child, you very easily could have been. The timing was pretty damned close; close enough to deceive me, at least initially. But I don't get any points for the fact that you're not my child. Whether you like it or not, you are a living reminder of my infidelity. Not only *that* infidelity but all others, real or imagined. And that's why I don't want to speak about these things again."
We drove in silence until he stopped in front of my house. He turned off the engine. I was about to open my door when he said, "Wait. I want to give you one last piece of advice: Don't rely too much on the Holderlins. I'm sure they're good and generous people, but you need to learn to stand on your own two feet. People love to help babies and children, but once you turn eighteen, people expect you to carry your own weight. If you're going to live in their home they're going to expect you to contribute financially. Or they're going to want you to leave. It's better to go before they ask you; it'll make it easier to stay friends."
He helped me carry Dexie's few belongings to the door, but he wouldn't go inside. Then he said, "Good luck" and gave me a hug, which was yet another surprise.
Without another word, he left.
I carried the boxes and bags into the basement. The clothes were clean, so I hung the hangable ones in the closet. Then I went looking for a bureau, a desk, and a mirror.
The garage yielded an old full-length mirror. It was covered in grime, dust, and cobwebs, and all four corners were damaged, but as far as reflecting was concerned, it still did its job. I sprayed it off with the garden hose, wiped it with some rags, and carried it into the basement. It still needed cleaning, but now it was clean enough to bring into the house.
Kristy Anne and Carla weren't home, so I wandered freely around the house, considering every bit of furniture. I was struck by hold old everything looked. I guess it had been a long time since we bought anything. In the sunroom I found a decent chair. Upstairs, I saw a very likely bureau, but it was in the guest bedroom. That room was crowded with furniture, but Kristy Anne liked it that way, so I didn't dare poach from it.
Just after I opened the trap door to the attic and pulled down the folding stairs, the phone rang. I hesitated, wishing one of the the others were home, and considered letting the answering machine get it, but it was two steps away, so I picked it up, without looking to see who it was.
I recognized the voice immediately. It was my oldest and closest friend, "Arrow" Adams. He was the person we were planning to visit in Seattle. Of course, the trip was canceled after our incident at Exeter, but Kristy Anne had been the one to call him. I hadn't spoken to Arrow since last Sunday, when I was still Fred. Since then, I'd was so busy being Dexie that — I'm ashamed to say — I hadn't thought of him at all.
He asked for Kristy Anne. His voice sounded heavy and low.
"I'm sorry, but she's not home right now," I told him.
"Am I speaking to Dexie?" he asked. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm sorry we didn't get to meet this weekend. I was really looking forward to it. Congratulations on getting out of high school! A lot of people will tell you those were the best years of your life, but that's bullshit. Pardon my French. Your life doesn't begin until you get out of school and start doing something."
"Thanks, A— Mr. Adams," I said.
"Arrow. Please call me Arrow. I know I'm an old man, but if you call me 'Arrow' I can pretend I'm not."
"Okay," I said, and laughed a little. "Thanks, Arrow."
"Now that's a little bright spot, isn't it? — I've made a pretty girl laugh. That's a bright spot in a dark time." He sniffed hard a few times and made some coughing noises. He was trying to not cry on the phone.
"Listen," he said, "When you go out to Spokane, even if you go alone, please stop by. It's a long drive, and you can stay here for a day, a week, whatever. Right now, you're a free spirit, you have to make the most of it, and Seattle's a wonderful place to be. We can swap stories about old Fred."
"I will," I said.
"I really mean it," he said.
"Okay," I replied. I felt enormously uncomfortable and started shifting from one foot to another, as if I had to go to the bathroom.
After an awkward silence, he said, "Well, I guess we'll meet at the funeral."
"Yes!" I exclaimed too forcefully. "I'm looking forward to it." Then, feeling ever more awkward, I added, "I mean, not that I'm looking forward to the funeral, it's just..."
"Don't worry," he said, in a voice that had dropped to a croak. "I understand. We'll meet soon, and after, you can visit."
"Right."
"Bye, then," and he hung up.
I stood there with my head down, the dead phone in my hand, my tears dropping one by one to the floor.
Kristy Anne and Carla found me, lying on the floor by the attic stairs. At first, they thought I was dead.
"Oh, my God, Dexie!" Carla cried, "Did you fall?"
"No," I moaned.
"What happened?"
Sniffling, I looked up at the two of them. Their glances went back and forth between me and the stairs, as they tried to work out what had happened.
"It... isn't... the... stairs," I groaned, choking on the words.
"What is it, then?" Kristy Anne asked, crouching beside me and touchy my head gently.
I took a deep breath and told them about the phone conversation with Arrow, adding that he was my best, oldest, and maybe only friend, and that I was the worst person in the universe.
Hesitantly, Kristy Anne said, "What was that, honey? You're talking and crying at the same time, and I can't make out a word."
I drew a sobbing breath and looked at her. Slowly, I repeated the whole thing. At the end, Kristy Anne and Carla exchanged a significant look.
"What?" I demanded. "What did that look mean?"
"Uh... honey...," Kristy Anne tentatively began, but I interrupted with a fierce, shouted, "Just tell me!"
Carla said it: "I think you're on your period, Dad."
After some chocolate and other preparations, I told them (in a much calmer voice), "I understand that I'm on my period, but I really am upset about Arrow."
"Yes, of course you are," Kristy Anne replied, "it's just that your hormones amplify it. Instead of being sad, it's heart-breaking."
"Oh, God!" I groaned.
"You'll learn to deal with it," she said with a smile.
"The thing is, I want to call him back and tell him I'm not dead."
"Don't do that!" Carla and Kristy Anne said in immediate chorus.
"I won't," I said. "But he's so broken up." I began sniffling again, then got a grip on myself. "And I can't help but think... What's going to happen at my funeral? I'm going to be like this with EVERYBODY."
"Yeah," Kristy Anne agreed. "I know how you feel. I've wanted to tell a few people myself. But we can't."
"Maybe I should skip the funeral," I offered.
"No," Kristy Anne said. "You can't do that. People would wonder where you were. They'd think you were ungrateful and that you didn't care."
"I could deal with that," I said.
"No," Kristy Anne said. "You need to go. You need to see everyone and let them grieve. It'll hurt, but remember: it hurts them, too, and it hurts me as well."
Carla looked at me, frowned, and asked, "So, uh, I hope this won't make you cry again, but why was the attic open?"
Chapter Six
by Kaleigh Way
Up in the attic the three of us found, and wrestled down to the basement, a tall, seven-drawer bureau, and a sturdy table that could serve as a desk. Kristy Anne also retrieved a green-shaded desk lamp and a small makeup mirror. "This way you can sit at your desk and do your face," she explained.
Carla helped me clean my new furniture and arrange my room while Kristy Anne prepared dinner. She didn't need to actually cook; neighbors had been bringing food, as they do when someone dies. Tonight we were going to have chicken parm from a friend who happens to be professional chef. Kristy Anne warmed up a baguette and threw together a salad.
Usually I would have had a glass of wine with dinner. Now, I wasn't of legal age, but more interestingly, I found I didn't want it.
The dinner was wonderful. I don't mean the food — although the chicken parm was excellent — I'm talking about the atmosphere. Kristy Anne and Carla were both happy for a change: their faces were smiling and open. It was an enormous relief; they'd been pushing me away, or least keeping me at arms' length, since the accident. I didn't want to spoil the good mood by asking why they'd changed. Instead, I asked them where they'd been.
It turned out that they'd been visiting my sister Kate.
"She told us some stories about you that I've never heard before," Kristy Anne began, and erupted in laughter.
"Oh, no!" I groaned. "I'm sure *I* never heard them before, either! I can't even imagine! Listen, you can't believe everything — you can't believe almost anything she tells you. It all comes straight out of her own head."
They both laughed, and Kristy Anne had a knowing look as she sipped her wine.
"Dad, did you really go ice skating in a open sewer?" Carla inquired.
"It wasn't a sewer!" I protested. "I know how she tells this story, and she leaves a lot out. Anyway, it was a storm drain, NOT a sewer."
"That's so much better," laughed Kristy Anne.
I said, "You have to realize, Kate really does make stuff up. She's a lot younger than me, so some of the stories she tells, she wasn't even there for. She has a very active, vivid imagination and uses it to fill in all the parts she doesn't know. And the things that *are* real, events that she actually saw, she exaggerates or changes to make them better stories. After she's told them a couple of times, she believes her stories are true!"
"Well, she has some doozies," Kristy Anne replied, and for the rest of the dinner she and Carla recalled and laughed over my sister's fictional and half-fictional stories.
"She said she might write a book about you," Carla told me.
"Oh, God," I breathed. "I'll sue her."
Kristy Anne and Carla erupted in laughter over that, and after pouting for a bit, I laughed, too.
As I said, I didn't have any wine, but Kristy Anne had a glass, and it seemed to improve her already good mood.
"I'm glad that we had this nice evening together," she said. "It's been a hard couple of days, but your sister told us we had remember all good, fun, and wonderful things about you."
Carla added, "She said all the bad things would fade."
"I hope so," I said.
"Also, while we're together," Kristy Anne continued, "there are a few things I wanted to tell you both, and I don't think they should wait."
"Okay," I said.
"This is just between the three of us, but I've decided that in the fall, after Carla leaves for college, I'm going to sell the house and move."
"Move where?" I asked.
"I don't know yet," she replied. "It has to be someplace where nobody knows me. Friends have already started talking about how young I look and wondering why I'm not wearing glasses. I'd like to start new, like you two."
"That sounds like a good idea," I said.
"You go, Mom!" Carla cheered.
"And in line with that, I've asked my sister to come stay for a while... maybe a couple of weeks," she said. "You know, Cheryl is a tax accountant, and she's going to help me get all our affairs in order."
"I can do that," I told her.
"No, you can't," she countered. "Well, I mean — of course you could; I know that you're able. But I don't want you to. I know you've always handled our money, but *I* need to know how to do it, and she'll show me."
"I could show you," I said. "Why bring someone else into it? It'll be faster if I do it."
"No," she said. "I don't need fast; I need to learn. I have to be able to do it myself. Dexie, you and I — we will hold each other back if we don't stand on our own feet."
"Okay," I said, a little glumly.
"If you stay here and hold my hand and show me, or even worse, if you do it all yourself, you're going to end up being an old lady's companion. Neither of us will have a life of our own. You have a new life to start, and so do I. Carla does too. We have to go off in three different directions. We'll keep in touch, we'll meet, but we will live three separate lives."
"I get it," I said, and looked down at my plate.
"It's okay," she said, and reached out to put her hand on mine. "I know I've been hard on your since the accident—"
"No, I understand," I said. "It's been difficult for you both, and I haven't been sensitive to that. Now that I'm starting to get it, it's—"
"Now it's starting to be difficult for you, too," Kristy Anne observed. "Don't worry. We'll get through this together."
"Right," Carla said, half-joking, "We'll learn to be apart together."
Tuesday evening was my wake. It was open coffin, which is something I never minded before, but this time... I kept drifting back to look at my old self. Not that I looked bad or old or anything, but it was... I'm not sure what it was. Unsettling, for one thing. It was like an out-of-body experience. Sure, I'd seen my reflection in mirrors. I've seen plenty of photographs of myself. What I'd never seen was my body in three dimensions: as a concrete, life-size being. I wanted to touch my old body, to feel its weight, the substantiality of it... I guess I wanted to reassure myself that everything we experienced was real.
Carla and Kristy Anne kept sending people to lead me away from the coffin. Unconsciously I kept drifting back.
My brother was crying, and that was hard to witness. My sister kept the stiff upper lip, the reassuring smile. She handled it well. It was the opposite of what I expected. I realized that Kate was a lot closer to me than my brother. Kate and I used to speak a couple of times a week, and saw each other frequently. The last time I'd seen my brother... when was it? It had to be over two years ago, at the funeral of our Uncle Jack. I would have thought that he'd be unaffected and Kate would be all broken up, but I guess it was more about how we'd left it. She knew how I felt about her. We had nothing unresolved. My brother and I... we didn't have a real relationship any more. All we had was the lack of one.
Arrow came. He looked like hell. After talking to Kristy Anne and Carla, he walked over and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Dexie," he said. "I'm glad to finally meet you. You know, Fred thought the world of you." His eyes welled with tears. He blinked them back.
"He did a lot for me," I said.
"Like a surrogate father," Arrow offered.
"Yes, you could say that," I agreed. I felt so uncomfortable lying to the man. He was my oldest and best friend, and now I had to pretend that I was meeting him for the first time. So I said something true. "He always said you were his oldest and best friend."
Arrow made an inarticulate noise in his throat and squeezed my shoulder hard. He stood there, neither of us knowing what to say. Then I noticed a young, dark-haired woman come in the front door. Before the door closed, she blew a lungful of cigarette smoke out and shut the door on it. Arrow followed my gaze and said, "She's my driver."
"Your driver?" I repeated.
"Yeah," he agreed, shifting uncomfortably.
"Are you sure she's not your girlfriend?" I teased. "After all, I've heard you're quite the ladies' man." It was true. Arrow was the sort of man who counted conquests. He'd never been married, and I don't think I'd ever seen him with the same woman twice. In every conversation we'd ever had, he always described a recent tryst. Not that I wanted to hear that sort of thing! He would always slip it in as a sort of aside.
"No, she is not my girlfriend," he assured me. "I hired her to drive me down here and back."
I wasn't sure what to make of that. I couldn't imagine Arrow letting a woman drive.
"Don't look so shocked," he said, reading my thoughts on my face. "I just didn't feel like driving."
The funeral was at eleven, Wednesday morning. It was followed by a lunch. Pretty much everyone who knew Fred was there. Arrow's driver was there. She was young, curvy, attractive. She had a hefty pair of breasts and a few boys and men tried — and failed — to strike up her acquaintance. She didn't sit down. She didn't talk to anyone. She ate, drank, and frequently went out to smoke.
"Does she smoke while she drives?" I asked Arrow.
"No," he replied. "Somehow she manages to survive without it. I guess she's stockpiling tar and nicotine right now."
"The way marathon runners carbo-load," I joked.
"Exactly," he agreed.
The two of us sat together and talked for the entire lunch. At times it felt as if we'd both forgotten that I'd changed bodies. It was like old times: Fred and Arrow talking, not Dexie and Arrow. In fact, we only stopped talking when Arrow's driver signaled him, gesturing with her chin and pointing to her watch. "She's right," he sighed. "It's time." He lumbered to his feet, so I stood as well. "It's been great talking to you," he said. "It really lightened a sad, sad day."
"I enjoyed it, too," I assured him. He gave me a hug and made me promise (again) to visit him in Seattle soon. Then he went to say goodbye to Kristy Anne and Carla. Kristy Anne glanced at me while they were talking, which made me feel a little guilty. I don't know why. Kristy Anne pulled Arrow aside and spoke very earnestly to him for about two minutes. Then Arrow gave her a hug and walked out the door with his curvy young driver, who puffed like a little locomotive.
After taking a big drink of water, I checked in with Kristy Anne and Carla, who both looked exhausted. Luckily, Arrow's departure was part of a general trend, and the room was rapidly emptying out.
Of course, everyone wanted to have a final word with Kristy Anne and Carla. A few people wanted to talk with me, either to hear about the accident or to instruct me on how grateful I ought to be to the Holderlins. I didn't mind. None of the conversations lasted very long.
A group of girls surrounded Carla, and the father in me was heartened by that. I was glad she had friends who showed up when she needed them. The girls, however, were muscled out by Carla's aunts, uncles, and cousins, who all needed to say their goodbyes. The girls hung nearby in a loose group, and I heard one ask, "Can we just leave, or what?"
Then they caught sight of me, and fell silent, even more unsure of how to proceed. After a few moments, one of them said, "Hey, Strange Girl." I smiled and said "hi" in response. They were astonished.
"Hey! Look at that! The Strange Girl smiles! What happened to her?"
"Maybe that accident woke her up," one of them said. She got a quick elbow in the ribs from another girl.
"Yeah, she's right," I agreed. "The accident changed me."
The girls came closer and gathered around me. They were curious about the accident. I told them what I could, ending with "Mr. Holderlin" taking the wrong turn, fishtailing down the dirt road, and hitting the tree. They were especially interested to hear how Fred had flown through the windshield.
"Wasn't he wearing a seat belt?" they asked, and "Why didn't the air bag stop him?"
We talked until they ran out of questions. Carla was still busy with our relatives, so they turned back to me. "What are you going to do now, Dexie? Where are you going to college?"
"I'm going to get a job," I replied. "I can't go to college right now."
"Why not?" they asked.
"Money."
"Huh?"
"I don't have the money to pay for college."
That puzzled them. "Won't your parents pay for it?"
"No."
They didn't know what to do with that information, so they fell silent again. Then, "What kind of job are you going to get?"
"I don't know yet," I replied.
"Doesn't sound like much of a plan," one of them commented. This made me laugh. "Why is that funny?" the girl wanted to know.
"I don't know," I replied, and got a look that said She's still the Strange Girl!
They looked again toward Carla, who was still busy. I told them, "If you want to go, I'll tell her you said goodbye. I think she's going to be talking to them for a while."
The next morning, Kristy Anne came into the kitchen bleary eyed. I was munching on my breakfast cereal. Before we exchanged good mornings, she dropped into a chair, and announced, "I've made another decision: from now on I'm just Kristy. People kept calling my name yesterday Kristy Anne, Kristy Anne and I finally got sick of it."
"Okay," I agreed. "I like it better too."
She grunted in acknowledgment and rubbed her eyes. "Looked like you had a good time talking to Arrow yesterday."
"Oh, yeah, it was great."
"Mmm. How did he look to you?"
"Pretty crappy, to tell the truth."
Kristy nodded. "It's partly because he's so broken up by your death. Did I tell you that he's called every night since he heard you died?"
"No, you didn't!"
"Yeah. Do you mind being the one who talks to him tonight?"
"No," I said. "I'll be glad to."
"You know you were his only friend, don't you?"
"Well, he always says that, but he must have other friends. I can't believe I'm his only friend."
"No, you were," Kristy affirmed. "I've gone into that with him night after night. He had no one but you. Now that you're gone, he's started calling me. He's a nice enough guy, but you know... he can be a bit much." I knew what she meant. Kristy respected the fact that Arrow was my friend, but she found his chauvinism hard to bear.
"Okay," I said. "I'll talk to him."
"Are you planning on going up to see him?"
"Yes, I will. When I can."
"When you can? What's stopping you?"
"Well... aren't I needed here?"
"No," she said. "I told you, I'm trying to get on my own feet."
While I considered this, she added, "Also, I don't think Arrow is in the best of health."
I said, "Yeah, did you see that girl he came with?"
Kristy snorted and rolled her eyes.
"She was his driver, Kristy. Arrow never lets someone else drive for him."
"Yes, I'm sure she was just his driver," Kristy agreed in a dry tone.
"He told me she wasn't his girlfriend."
"Of course he'd tell you that," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that when he tries to put the move on you, he doesn't want you thinking about the hot little chick who smokes like a chimney."
"No!" I protested.
"Oh, yes," she countered. "Your friend is a horndog, as you will discover when you go visit."
"He wouldn't try anything on me," I told her.
"He wouldn't try anything on Fred," she corrected. "but you're not Fred, are you?"
Chapter Seven
by Kaleigh Way
Now that my funeral was out of the way, my schedule was suddenly wide open.
Unless you've had to deal with the aftermath of a family member's death, you have no idea how much there is to do. It seems like every time you turn around, there's a detail you hadn't considered that needs some sort of adjustment, some kind of paperwork, or at least a number of phone calls.
I knew all about that. I was the executor after my father's death, and despite my best efforts, it was two years before I finally closed the book on it.
The reason it all took so long was, in two words, my brother. He argued over everything and delayed decisions for no reason. For some reason he thought I was going to cheat him out of something... anything... everything. I told him that he could get a lawyer to protect his interests -- thinking that I'd have an easier time talking to a professional, but he refused. Instead, he fussed and bickered and made a difficult task as disagreeable as possible.
Dealing with my own death wasn't going to be anything like that. I learned some lessons from settling Dad's estate, and put everything in good order. I'd even made a runbook that Kristy could follow. In any case, everything was in her hands. I mean, she could make whatever decisions she liked, unilaterally.
I wanted to help! As I said, I'd done all of it before — I'd prepared all of it now — and I didn't want her to bear the burden alone, but Kristy kept me out. "You need to let me be the adult here," she told me. "You're nothing but kind and helpful, but you're holding me back. You're not letting me grow."
There were also my belongings to sort through. I wanted to bundle up pretty much everything and give it to Goodwill, but Kristy pointed out how cold and unsympathetic that would seem. "It would make it look as though I couldn't wait to get rid of you," she said. "Just wait a while, okay?"
I saw her point, and settled for balling up all my old underwear in a black plastic bag that I put out with the trash. That way, I could do something without appearing callous.
Since I was effectively locked out of doing any Fred business, I spent Thursday taking care of Dexie business. First of all, I applied for a name change. Dexie was an odd name, but it was a name I could live with. Ur-Dexina, on the other hand, was just plain wrong, and that's what my birth certificate read. Now — before my life really began — was the best time to get all my documents lined up with the same name.
It turned out that I'd have to wait at least 30 days for a court date, and that I'd have to announce my intention by posting notices in the newspaper during that time. With the help of Irene, the woman at the courthouse, the name I requested was Alexandra Lane Martineau. I didn't want to stray too far from "Dexie," but as the woman said, "Everyone can still call you Dexie. It'll be your nickname instead of your real name. And with Alexandra, you can be Alex, Allie, Lexie, Xandra, ..."
The judge, who happened to be there, chimed in. "Oh, and, uh, what's that name... the warrior princess name... you know—"
"Xena," Irene and I chorused. I added, "I will NOT call myself Xena."
"You'll always be Xena to me," the judge said with a smirk and a wink. Irene swatted him with a rolled-up magazine, as if he were a naughty pet.
"Don't tease the poor girl," she said. "She's already trying to get rid of one odd name, and you want to throw her from the frying pan into the fire! You know what? If you want to help this girl, go ahead and grant her petition now."
"I can't do that," he said, shaking his head. "Rules! Thirty days!" Then he joked, "But I'll tell you what I can do: If in the meantime you decide that you'd rather be Xena, we can amend the petition."
Irene rolled her eyes. I smiled and left.
From there I went to the Social Security office, because the Lanes had never gotten Dexie a social-security card. I was hoping to get everything in my new name: social-security card, bank account, cell phone, drivers license, birth certificate, high-school diploma, but all of that would have to wait. In the meantime, I was Ur-Dexina Martineau pretty much everywhere that counted, except for my drivers license. I had to come up with three new signatures: one for Dexie Lane, one for Ur-Dexina Martineau, and one for Alexandra Martineau. It would be thirty days before I'd be signing anything as Alexandra, but I wanted to have a nice signature — not the scribble I used as Fred, so I'd be practicing.
In any case, by 1:30 on Thursday I had a cell phone and a bank account. I deposited most of the money from Lane, along with a check from Kristy.
"You need money for your trip," she said. It was a pretty gentle hint. "If you need more, give me a call and I'll make a transfer to your account."
"I'll try not to ask," I told her.
"It's your money," she reminded me.
There didn't seem to be anything more for me to do at home or around town. And so, as Kristy pointed out, there was nothing keeping me from going to visit Arrow and going on from there to visit Dexie's mother. I didn't tell Kristy that I had no intention of finding Dexie's birth-mother. I just wanted to get out of Kristy's hair for a while.
I called Arrow. He sounded terrible. I'd never known him to be moody at all. Certainly in all the years I'd known him I'd seen him angry and down, but never so... crushed. Depressed. It can't just be my death, I told myself. There had to be something more.
When I asked if I could come in the next few days, he perked up. "Yes, absolutely! Come whenever you can! The sooner the better!"
"I won't cramp your style, will I?" I asked.
"You like to tease me, don't you?" he asked, laughing.
"No, it's an honest question," I replied.
"You just come on ahead, Dexie," he told me. "Don't worry about my domestic arrangements. Why should you care who I'm sleeping with?"
Why indeed? I'd visited him several times as Fred, and each time he had a new sleeping partner, but during the day he ignored her for the most part. He and I would talk, and she would pad around in the background. Sometimes she'd sit and lean into his arms until she was bored and walk away.
I say "she" even though it was always a different woman, but they all behaved the same way. I don't know why or how.
Now that I was young and female, I had no idea how the visit would go, but even if he was having regular sex, he was still obviously depressed and feeling alone. And regardless of who I am now, Arrow is still my best and oldest friend.
So, Thursday afternoon I found a rideshare on Craigslist. A woman named Diane was heading to Seattle, and looking for another woman to share gas and driving. On the phone she sounded like a nice, normal person. "I'm moving up there," she told me. "I'm a nurse; I just got a job at the Swedish hospital up there. Why are you going?" When I told her I was visiting a friend, she asked, "Can you leave tomorrow?"
Friday morning at 5:30 I was standing outside my house, blinking sleepily, my backpack and suitcase at my feet.
The sun would officially rise in fifteen minutes, but everything was already lit with soft pre-dawn light.
A dark green Mini Cooper pulled up and a young, cute, wiry brunette jumped out. "Hey," she said with a grin. "Ready to roll?"
Before I could answer, she loaded my luggage in the back. I was yet to move a muscle. "Wow," I said, "You're way more awake than I am."
"No problem," she replied as she opened the passenger door. "Just park your tush in here and I'll do the rest. In two hours we can stop for coffee and see if you feel like driving."
"Okay."
"I figured I'd take 99 and get on 5 at Red Bluff. How's that sound?"
"Yeah, that's how I'd go," I replied.
"Cool! I'm going to Capitol Hill," she said. "Where do I need to drop you?"
"Drop me?" I asked, my mind still foggy from waking up so early.
"Yeah, in Seattle. I'm going to stay with a friend who lives on Capitol Hill. That's where I'm going. Before I do, I have to drop you some place, right? Where are you going?"
"Right, right. Sorry — I'm still waking up. I have to take the Bremerton Ferry. Do you know where that is?"
"Hell, yeah! It's right downtown. Easy peasy."
Diane's little car shot like a bullet down the highway. There were a few trucks and tractors on the road, but she passed them almost as if they were standing still.
"Were your foster parents good to you?" Diane asked. Inevitably, we told each other our life stories.
"I guess they weren't bad," I replied. "They weren't affectionate at all. They didn't pay me any attention. I was like a stranger in their home. I had to get my own food and do my own laundry."
"But they didn't hit you or shout at you or tie you up or anything, right?"
"No, none of that."
"Well, you know... you don't need to be a foster child to have bad parents. But at least they didn't scar you. You seem pretty normal and happy and hopeful."
"Yeah," I agreed. I wondered what her assessment would have been, had she met the real Dexie.
"And so... why don't you want to meet your birth mother? Aren't you curious?"
I sighed. "I don't know how to explain..."
"Think about this," she said. "Right now you have a little window of opportunity, before you get a job. It'll be easier to go there now than, say, a year from now, when you have a job, and a boyfriend, and a social life."
"Oh, boyfriend," I echoed. "I hadn't thought about that."
"Have you ever had a boyfriend?" she asked. "No? Hard to believe. You'll find one in Seattle, believe me."
We talked about Arrow. Once I started, I just poured out pretty much everything I knew about him. I didn't mean to... it's just that one memory led to another, and Diane was such a good listener. She'd prompt me with questions, and often dug into the why of things.
"Sorry!" I said, "I just realized I've been talking for two solid hours!"
"It's okay," she said. "I'm surprised you know so much about the guy."
"Yeah, I've, uh, heard a lot of Fred's stories."
She nodded.
"There's one thing you didn't say, though."
"What's that?"
"Why is he called Arrow?"
I laughed. "It's kind of a long story, but one day he stole some amazing amount of soda from a supply closet at school and sold it. The teachers knew that he'd done it, but they couldn't prove it.
"One of the teachers was asking him about it in class, in front of everyone, and Arrow said, I'm as honest as the day is long, and the teacher said — full of sarcasm — Oh, yes, Mr. Adams, you're as straight as an arrow. So people kept repeating that straight as an arrow bit, and eventually started calling him Arrow."
Diane gave me a strange look. She was driving, but she was staring at me with her mouth slightly open.
"Hey! Hey! Eyes on the road!" I told her.
She turned her eyes back forward, then glanced at me a couple of times. "That was seriously weird," she said. "The way you told that story, it's like you were remembering it."
"Yeah, I'm remembering hearing it," I said.
"No," she shook her head. "No: remembering seeing it. You talk like you were there." She shivered. "It's creepy."
"Okay," I said slowly, realizing my mistake. "Let's talk about something else."
She waved her hand dismissively. "I have one more question... or something. You know this guy is a horndog. You said that he's a chauvinist, and Fred's wife — what's her name? Kristy? — can't stand the guy for that reason."
"Yeah."
"And you're going to stay in this guy's house."
"Right."
She was silent for a little while, expecting me to respond, but I didn't say anything. Finally, she said it herself: "You know how men will say that a woman was asking for it?"
"Yeah."
"Usually it's bullshit. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time it's just a stupid thing that men say so they can pretend they're not responsible. But... and I'm sorry for saying this, but I think that if a woman stays at night in a man's house... well, already that's something... but if you add the fact that she KNOWS he is the kind of guy who sees women as sex toys for his amusement... You have to know that he's thinking that there is only one reason you're there, and that is: that you're asking for it."
I was silent. She glanced at me a couple of times.
"Are you going to say anything?"
"I don't know," I replied.
Diane scratched her eyebrow and pressed her lips in tight, straight line.
"Sex is fine," she said. "People should have sex. I'm just saying. You KNOW he's going to try to jump your bones, don't you?"
"I don't know," I replied.
"I do," she said.
My brain was blank. I couldn't think about it.
"How about this?" she continued. "IF... let's say IF he jumps your bones, are you going to be surprised?"
"No."
"Is that what you want to happen?"
I took a deep breath. "Yes."
"Ah," Diane said, relaxing. "Now we're getting somewhere." Then, suddenly getting it: "Oh! Oh!" She punctuated her cries by thumping the steering wheel. "You're a virgin, aren't you!"
"Yes," I said. "Technically, yes."
"Technically?" she repeated, laughing.
Chapter Eight
by Kaleigh Way
We arrived in Seattle a few minutes before 5:00, which pleased Diane greatly. "We've still got more than three hours of sunlight!" she exclaimed.
Diane overflowed with enthusiasm. Why wouldn't she? She was pretty much starting a new life. True, she'd lived in Seattle before, so it wasn't a new city for her, and sure, she already had friends here, so it wasn't new in that sense either. Eventually she'd have a new place to live, but for now she'd be staying with friends.
What was new was her job as a nurse in a local hospital, and best of all, the new possibilities that came from leaving her old life behind. "What I left behind in California," Diane had said, "was my old life, and that life consisted of a crappy job, a crappy apartment, a crappy boyfriend with all his crappy attitudes and all his crappy friends!"
After we'd unloaded my bags on the sidewalk in front of the ferry terminal, Diane gave me a big hug. We'd already exchanged phone numbers. I said, "I hope everything works out great for you here."
"Hey," she laughed. "I don't need great. I'll settle for just fine, or just plain good. It doesn't need to be great. What I don't want is crappy. I've had enough of crappy."
"Here's to nothing crappy, then!" I laughed, and gave her another hug.
"And listen," she told me with a wicked grin, "You have fun tonight, losing your you-know-what."
I didn't exactly feel embarrassed, but her comment caught me totally by surprise, and I found that I was speechless. Diane looked at my face and smirked. She pulled a small box out of her handbag and put it in my hand. She said, "Here. This is from the nurse in me." It was a pack of condoms.
"Oh, God!" I groaned.
"Hey," she protested, "If this guy gets around even a quarter as much as you think he does, he could be carrying a whole array of diseases, including HIV. Make sure he wears one of those, no matter where he wants to put his thing."
I took a deep breath, and opened my mouth, but still no words came out. I didn't know what to say. She closed my hand around the little box, and said, "Put it away for now. Just make sure it's handy when you need it. Also, I hope you're aware: you *can* get pregnant the first time."
"I know that!" I exclaimed, a little offended.
"Sorry," she said. "A lot of girls don't. You don't want to end up with a bun in the oven."
I huffed and kicked an imaginary pebble, and managed to say, "Okay" and "Thanks" and a few other monosyllables. She laughed and got in another quick hug. Then — much to my relief — she climbed into her Mini and zoomed out of sight.
Why was I relieved to see her go? It wasn't that I didn't like her. I *did* like her, and I'm sure we could be good friends. That, in fact, was part of the problem. Diane is a great listener. Diane excelled at keeping a conversation moving. She'd ask the right questions, remind you of a dropped thread, or respond in a way that made you want to go on. If you think of a conversation as a big, slow-rolling ball, she was always ready to give the right nudge, or sweep some little obstacle out of the way... she took great care to ensure that the ball never stopped.
There is, of course, nothing wrong with that. It's a great skill, and I think I learned a few things from her about how to talk to people. What made it dangerous was the way she made me feel so comfortable and so trusting. Several times I came very close to telling her who I really was and how I came to be this way.
The danger wasn't all on my side, either. Diane could sense there was something I wasn't saying. She had no idea what I was hiding. She was just curious. My secret drew her like a magnet. She never went for it directly; she gently circled around it, looking for a way in. She noticed the holes, the gaps, the changes in the way I told my story, and from that she was able to divine the outline of what I wouldn't say.
I lugged my bags inside, bought my ticket, and boarded the 5:35 ferry. It took off a few minutes after I stepped aboard.
If you've ever been on one of the Seattle ferries, you'll know that it's easy to get a window seat. The ship is big, but so are the windows, so it's difficult to find a place where you can't see the view. In fact, I don't know if it's possible. There's plenty of room outside, too, if you want that. Inside there's a snack bar, plenty of seats, plenty of room, and plenty of big tables where you can eat or read or write. I took one of the big tables, stowed my bags underneath, and gave Arrow a call. He didn't pick up — which was odd. I left a message on his voicemail so he'd know which ferry to meet.
Then I bought a newspaper, a slice of pizza, and a cup of coffee. There weren't many people on the ferry, so I took over the entire table by completely opening the newspaper. You don't get many chances to spread out a paper that way. It was pure indulgence on my part: There was really only one thing I wanted to see, and that was roommate listings. Not that I specifically wanted one; I just wanted to see what possibilities were available.
One of the ideas Diane put in my head was, "If you don't know what you want to do and you don't have any place you need to go, you ought to consider living in Seattle. I love it. You don't need to spend a lot of money, either: you can find a roommate situation and pay a couple hundred a month for rent. There are loads of people our age, or your age — whatever. Seattle's a laid-back city, but it's not like California. It's like California with a brain, if you know what I mean." We both laughed, then she went on, "I mean it. Seattle is sophisticated without being pushy. Seattle isn't a high-pressure city like New York or L.A. It's a much more human place to be."
All of that sounded good. She also told me that Seattle is a healing city, and that called out to the hurt in me — the hurt that had come with Kristy and Carla's rejection of me. I understood their reasons... it all made perfect sense, but still it hurt. Clearly, I couldn't stay with Kristy and Carla any more. It just wasn't an option, and Diane's suggestion was not only attractive, it was also very practical.
After I circled a dozen promising listings, I put the paper away. I didn't need to see any more. It was clear that the idea was feasible. Also, I stopped because there was something else I wanted to mull over; something else that had come up on the trip. You can probably guess what it was. I swear I hadn't the slightest inkling that I wanted to have sex with Arrow until Diane asked me. Let me be clear: I'm not saying I'm attracted to the man; I'm not. And I didn't want any kind of relationship with him aside from friendship. But I knew that he would try to get in the pants of any woman close enough to talk to. I also knew that *he* wasn't looking for any sort of relationship. All I wanted was to try out my new equipment (so to speak). With Arrow, it ought to be pretty simple. Casual sex was practically his middle name.
I folded up the newspaper and tossed it in the bin with my other trash. Then I settled down to look out the window. I may not have mentioned it, but the ferry to Bremerton lasts an hour. It's incredibly peaceful and relaxing, but even so, an hour is a lot of time to kill. I stretched my legs over my bags and leaned back in the seat. Once I got comfortable I began to think about my new life.
You know how people say, If I could go back, be young again... knowing what I know now... Well, that was exactly my position. My age has been reset, and I know "what I know now." So what was I going to do with it?
Theoretically, I could do anything. In practical terms, however, I didn't feel any more free than when I was Fred, just a week ago.
I mean, I didn't really decide to come up and visit Arrow. It was just the easiest thing to do.
Did I have any idea of what I wanted to do? What I wanted out of this new life? Was there anything I felt I'd missed the first time around?
If you'd asked me a week ago what I wanted out of life, I'd have said, "I'd like the three of us — me, Kristy, and Carla — to be healthy again." Poof! That wish had been granted.
After that, I would have wished for a nice vacation. Somewhere warm. A place with hot sand, sun, clean air, a beautiful sea, good food and drinks, and young women strolling around in bikinis. Instead I was in Seattle, and *I* was potentially a young woman strolling in a bikini. Seattle wasn't hot; it was just under eighty degrees. There was plenty of water, and probably there was a beach out there somewhere, but I couldn't see it. And sun? Well, it wasn't raining, but sky looked like it was thinking about rain.
Oddly enough, I found that I didn't mind the weather. I actually liked it. It seemed kind of zen: peaceful, still, unhurried. I mean, this was like a vacation. At least I wasn't working. Outside the window lay the Puget Sound... big, quiet, tranquil. I could live here, I told myself. I would like it. I could stay here for a long, long time.
Just so you understand: In all this musing I wasn't worried about my future. I didn't feel as though I had to figure out the meaning of this second life of mine. There was one thing I *did* know that I hadn't known as a teenager: Finding out what I really, deeply wanted wasn't all that important. I needed a job, sure. And if I wanted a particular job, like being a doctor or a programmer or a dental hygienist (just to pick some jobs at random), I'd have to get some education or training. But this time around I wasn't going to waste my time looking for fulfilment in my job. I didn't intend to do something I hated, but one big item from "knowing what I know now" is that what I do for a living is nowhere near as important as what kind of person I am.
That's not to say that I didn't need goals of some kind. Sometimes I could let myself go where events took me, but more often I knew I'd need to be the active force. There were going to be plenty of times when nothing would happen in my life unless I made it happen. Getting through life is a lot like sailing: even when the wind is driving you, you have to pay attention and steer. When the wind's against you, you need to work harder and tack, back and forth, sliding cleverly against the wind. Or you need some kind of motor. I also knew from "what I know now" that there would never be a one-time-forever decision about how my life would be: Sometimes I wouldn't be able to choose, but I needed to at least define a direction, something or somewhere that I was aiming to be.
I wasn't worried about myself, but by the time we docked in Bremerton, I was a little worried about Arrow. Not *too* worried, but I hadn't heard from him yet, and that was very out of character for him. Usually Arrow would obsessively confirm. It was a holdover from his years in the military, I imagined. I tried calling him a second time, but once again got his machine.
It's strange that Arrow is my best friend. It's always been strange. We couldn't be more different. I've always been — I mean Fred was always was the typical suburbanite: married, conventional, a little out of shape, worked in an office, etc. Arrow, on the other hand, is more rough and tumble. He's fearless, often tactless, and rigorously unconventional.
Since he retired from the Air Force, he occasionally works as a "consultant." I asked him Doing what? and he replied gruffly, "Something like lobbying. Defense." He wouldn't say more. In any case, he seemed to work only occasionally and most of the time not at all.
Arrow is big: about six-four and all muscle. He looks like a brawler, and although he says he "detests" fighting, other high-testosterone men automatically want to square off with him. "It's the whole alpha male thing," he says. "I just walk in, minding my own business. I couldn't care less, but they see me as a challenge to their authority." Arrow says that fights seem to find him.
What is scarier than his muscles, though, is his stillness. He doesn't fidget. When he sits, he sits still. When he stands, he is immoveable, like a rock. He has a kind of animal awareness... I'd say spider sense, like in the comics, but it's something darker and more muscular — something with teeth.
Once, when I was in the Sierras, I saw a mountain lion. Let me tell you, it's a lot different than seeing one in the zoo. There was nothing between me and the animal except for a small scrub. I didn't see it until I was a few yards away and it gave a warning growl. Even now I can feel the electricity of that moment. My hair still stands on end when I recall it. The growl wasn't loud, but it was so deep, it vibrated in every part of my body. I took a few steps backward, then turned very slowly and deliberately, and walked away. Thankfully, it didn't follow, and when I glanced back I saw it walking in a different direction... although walking isn't the word. Picture a cat stalking its prey... graceful, fluid, each movement flowing through its entire body. Then imagine the cat is larger than you and built entirely of heavy, powerful muscles.
That's what Arrow feels like: big, muscular, fluid, animal. When he smiles, it's a relief.
As Fred, I always felt physically intimidated, and thankful he was my friend.
Now — as Dexie — I'm five-eight, and something shy of 120 pounds. The contrast is even greater.
So, picture little me, fresh off the ferry, looking up at that mountain of a man. Scary already, right? I was terrified. Not by his body, but by the look on his face. His expression was grim. Angry. I felt the hair on my arms, the back of my neck, and my entire scalp rise up in physical fear. I tried to not show it.
"Hey, Arrow," I said in what I hoped was a normal-sounding, unfearful voice, and I gave him a hopeful smile. My hope was that he'd smile back.
Instead, he growled, "You bastard."
I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't talking to someone behind me, and then squeaked out a high-pitched Me?
He turned his head and spat into the grass. "Yeah, you. You. YOU! Who are you?" he demanded.
"Dexie," I said. "Who else would I be?" My body was shaking. Had Arrow gone nuts? Was he going to hurt me? I couldn't understand his hostility. I'd never seen him this angry before. He seethed, he radiated danger. He was the personification of imminent peril. My eyes darted everywhere, looking for a way to run. If he lost it, if he got violent, my only chance was to drop my bags and try to outrun him.
He scoffed. "Kristy told me. Now I want to hear it from you. Who are you? Really."
"Fred," I whispered.
His lips tightened. "You talked to me! You LIED to me! You sat there and pretended that you'd never met me! You let me believe you were dead!" That last accusation was shouted so loudly, that everyone in the vicinity heard it, and turned to look at me. I swallowed hard, and by now I was shaking so hard I was afraid my legs would give out.
He fired questions at me: "Is it really true?"
I nodded.
"The flying saucer, the crash, the whole thing?"
I nodded mutely.
"You're *really* Fred?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I said. "I really am."
His face was so close we were almost literally nose to nose. His eyes searched my face; they bored into my eyes as if he could see the truth in there.
And then, suddenly, the spell broke and he clutched me in his arms. My feet left the ground. "I thought you DIED, you goddam bastard!" he groaned. I could feel his tears wetting my left shoulder, and his sobs shook my entire body. I had managed — out of sheer surprise — to take a big gulp of air before his arms closed on me, and now those arms squeezed it back out of me. It was like being caught in a vise. His embrace drove my backpack into my body. My arms were pinned to my sides and my legs dangled uselessly, like a ragdoll.
"Hey! Hey!" I softly wheezed. "You're hurting me! Ease up! Hey!" I wasn't capable of speaking any louder. My fingertips could just barely reach his sides, and I tapped him, as if that might help.
Oh, God, what a way to die! I thought, and suddenly remembered the story Of Mice and Men, where Lennie, a monster of a man, wants to keep mice as pets but can't help squeezing them to death because he doesn't know his own strength.
I don't want my last thought to be about John Steinbeck, I told myself. I tried to kick; I struggled to breathe.
What finally ended the ordeal was an old man who had watched our exchange from the very start. He saw the alarm on my face and walked over to tap Arrow on the back. "Excuse me, son, but I think you're crushing the life out of that little girl."
Arrow realized what he was doing, swore in surprise, and set me back on the ground. I took a huge, loud gasp of air, like a swimmer who dove too deep and just broke surface.
Arrow held me up with one hand on my shoulder, apologizing over and over, asking if I was all right. I gave a mute thumbs up. The old man stood by waiting, smiling, until I was able to whisper a thank you. He smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and moved on.
Arrow, red-faced, scooped up my bag and plucked the backpack off my shoulder. He carried them as if they weighed no more than a box of tissues.
As soon as we were underway in his Porsche 911, I said, "Listen, I'm really sorry, but I didn't tell you because I never thought you'd believe me."
"You could have at least tried," he retorted.
"In fact, I can hardly believe that Kristy told you!"
"Yeah, that was pretty weird. We talked for more than two hours, which is some kind of record for me. She put Carla on the phone for a while, too. I grilled the hell out of both of them, and if you don't mind, I've come up with some questions for you, too. Things only Fred would know. In fact, I don't care whether you mind. I'm going to grill you, too."
"Fire away," I invited.
"Not now," he said. "First let's get some food into us. And to be clear, I'm pissed off not only because you didn't tell me — that's a passive sin, but also because you deceived me — that's an active sin. Were you going to pretend to not know me for your whole visit?"
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "For God's sake, Arrow! Imagine if you'd died and somehow come back as that driver chick—"
"Danica Patrick?" he asked, puzzled.
"No! That girl who drove you to my funeral."
"Oh, her!" he scoffed. "What a mouth on that one. At first, she hardly spoke. I was actually stupid enough to think she was intriguing, but once she open her yap, so help me God, I couldn't shut her up."
"So, imagine if she came to me and told me that she was you."
He turned to look at me. He shook his head deliberately to say That is never gonna happen. "Look, Fre— what do I call you now?"
"It's best if you call me Dexie."
He sighed and shrugged. "Okay, Dexie," he said, with great emphasis on the name, as if I was only pretending, "let's get one thing straight: if I ever die and come back, it isn't me. I won't come back."
"How the hell do you know?" I asked, irritated.
"Have you ever heard the phrase Just say no? Maybe you should practice saying it every day until you get it. I will never come back from the dead. I would never let aliens turn me into someone else."
"You really are a jackass, do you know that?"
Arrow threw his head back and laughed, a deep barking laugh. "Now you're sounding more like Fred!"
Chapter Nine
by Kaleigh Way
Arrow took me to a restaurant called the Boat Shed, which sits right on the water. Virtually all of the building sits on pylons. If you had a boat, you could tie up at their dock and walk inside. The view is beautiful and the service is exceptional. I had a Greek salad with scallops while he had Cajun-seasoned swordfish. We ate without hurry. Arrow made polite conversation, asking about Kristy and Carla, although I doubt he was interested in my replies. The moment we finished eating, he stood, dropped some money on the table, and said, "We'll have dessert back at my place."
There was daylight while we ate, and it was *still* full daylight when we left the restaurant and walked to his car. "What time does the sun set up here?" I asked.
Arrow replied, "This time of year, sunset's about 8:30," and began opening the car roof. He put the top down, made sure my belongings were secure, and said, "Hop in! We're going to take the long way" — which was of course the more scenic route.
It was odd, finding myself on the other side of one of my old fantasies. In the past, I'd wished I could be the manly man driving a cool convertible, watching my female passenger's clothes ripple and her long hair float in the car's slipstream. Not only had I never been that guy; now I was that girl, the female passenger with the rippling clothes and the flowing hair. I have to say, I loved it: my body was electrified and my hair never felt so alive. (Although I have to say, my hair did NOT "float in the slipstream." Weirdly, it blew back around my face, getting in my mouth, poking me in the eyes, and mainly being in the way. But still, great.) I lifted my hands to feel the rush of air. Neither of us spoke at all. I took in the impressions of the drive and scenery, and he concentrated on the winding road and the inquisition ahead.
Arrow's house was a glorified cabin in the woods. It was comfortable, but it was rustic. It had all the amenities, but it was "cozy. In other words, it was small; designed and built to be a perfect fit for Arrow. It was perfect, yes, but perfect for one; it was definitely too small for two. Knowing Arrow, it must have been intentional: a message to the woman there for the evening, there for the week, there for the month. The message was clear: You can find a way to fit in for a while, but not forever. The occasional guest could squeeze in, but there wasn't enough room for a second long-term resident. The house itself told visitors (or lovers) that they wouldn't stay long.
There was no view of the water, but there was no view of the neighbors, either. "It's a tradeoff," he told me, years ago. "I love a nice view, but I love my privacy more. And in a beautiful place like this, privacy costs a lot less than a view."
The floor plan was (thankfully) very open. Otherwise, it would have been truly claustrophobic. The moment we entered, Arrow pointed to a leather armchair and said, "Sit." He set down my bags and went to the kitchen counter, where he cut slices of fresh cheesecake and popped open a Sauternes. He carried both plates, the bottle, and two glasses in one trip. He settled himself in an upholstered rocking chair, half-facing me, and arranged the dessert on a low table.
"I would never have thought to drink wine with cheesecake!" I exclaimed. "These are really amazing together!"
"There's a wine for everything. It's all about knowing the optimum pairing," he explained.
I nodded, and as I took a second delicious forkful, I glanced at Arrow. He hadn't taken a bite yet. He was sitting, holding his plate with one hand and his fork with the other, but he wasn't moving.
"Everything alright?" I asked.
"No, of course it's not alright," he replied. "First of all, I hardly know whether to call you a bastard or a bitch! We're in a totally bizarre, completely unbelievable, wholly unprecedented situation." He took a moment to master his emotions. Then he went on. "That said, I've explained wine pairings to Fred every fucking time he came here, and every time he was surprised. Every time. As if it were the first time that a wine went well with food."
"Oh," I said, taken aback. "Sorry. I didn't realize."
He gave me a strange, searching look, then, with no preamble, stepped directly into the interrogation. He began asking me names, places, memories... one after another. He asked about things I'd forgotten and had to struggle to recall. A few times he actually stumped me, but he made no comment; he simply went on to the next question. He gave me no time to rest or recover. His interrogation was relentless. It lasted for 45 very intense minutes, and then he stopped to refill our glasses and to cut us both another slice of cheesecake.
I hadn't finished my first piece yet.
"Uh..." I began to say.
"What?" he asked.
"I didn't say I wanted more."
He looked at me for a moment, then said, "I'm the man in this situation, in case that isn't clear."
"It's clear," I said, "but I don't see—"
"You're going to have to get used to a more passive role in life," he told me. "Unless you want to be unhappy."
I wanted to tell him That does not compute, but I didn't get the chance. After a quick sip of wine, Arrow picked up the interrogation again, but this time with a new tack. Up to now he'd simply been asking for facts, usually looking for one-word answers. Now he wanted explanations. He picked events from our past and asked me why. Why did I do one thing rather than another? What was my motivation for moving to this place or that? Why did I marry Kristy when I could have married so-and-so? Some of my explanations and motivations were already clear to him, and others he clearly didn't understand. The first few events were pretty simple to explain, but as we proceeded, they got progressively more difficult. Often the pivot or cause he was seeking lay in some emotion that I had trouble articulating. And honestly, I didn't always know why I'd done one thing rather than another. A few times I was able to satisfy him with a piece of information that he didn't already have. In some cases, he had follow-up questions, but generally he seemed satisfied with my responses.
On my part, though, I felt far from comfortable. During the first 45 minutes, Arrow had two "lightning rounds" of one-word-answer questions. I knew most of the answers, but I was beginning to feel the cumulative effect: most of his questions touched an emotional memories. Some memories were good, but some were unpleasant. He asked about friends who'd died, about things that had happened in our teens -- events that at the time were quite disturbing or even frightening.
Often in the second portion, when he asked about events and the why of things, his questions evoked the mixed, uncertain feelings I'd had, especially when it came to difficult decisions.
In retrospect, I'm sure he did it on purpose, to throw me off balance, to unsettle me... or better, to see whether he could unsettle me. If I wasn't Fred, I might have memorized all the right answers, but I wouldn't have the same internal reactions.
Soon, I was suffering from emotional indigestion.
But his last question was the one that REALLY got under my skin.
"Fifteen years ago, you and your family came to Seattle. While Kristy was off doing who-knows-what, you and Carla came to see me. After that visit, you didn't talk to me for five years. Nothing, for five whole years! What was that about?"
"You made Carla cry," I told him.
"And?"
"There is no and. You ate some of her ice cream when you had plenty of your own."
"Right," he agreed. "I did that to show that she couldn't manipulate me."
"That's idiotic!" I replied. "She was a baby then!"
"Yes," he agreed, "and she was running your life."
"She was a baby!" I repeated. "You didn't need to show that you were smarter or stronger than her!"
"I wasn't," he said. "I was showing *you* that *you* needed to be smarter and stronger than her."
I sighed in frustration. "You don't understand," I told him.
He was watching me closely. "That was it? Just for that, you didn't talk to me?"
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "I was angry! She's my daughter! You made my daughter cry! On purpose!"
"You were angry because you were weak," he replied.
His words were a hot dagger in an open wound. My anger and indignation crested like a wave of hot lava. I lifted my hands as if they'd help me articulate... something—
—And right there I caught myself. I dropped my hands and fell into silence. There was no point in arguing with him; he couldn't and wouldn't understand. For all his good qualities — and he did have many — Arrow had two big defects. One was the illusion that he didn't have opinions like the rest of us. He only had facts. Once he "saw" something, once he drew a conclusion, he was done. He seemed incapable of questioning himself.
Arrow's second defect was that he believed that living alone and not creating permanent attachments to others, had given him a strength and understanding that the rest of us lacked. In reality, the opposite was true, but he didn't have the capacity for seeing that.
Because of those two things, arguing with him was a waste of time. It was like arguing with the TV.
So I bit my tongue and tried to still the anger in me. If we went on talking, I knew I'd end up turning my back on him once again. I didn't want that to happen.
He watched me in silence for nearly a minute, and then said, "Okay."
"Okay what?" I shot back. My anger was cooling, but it was still pretty damn hot. The event was alive in my memory now. I could hear him tell Carla that he was going to take some of her ice cream, and hear her tell him No, it's mine. I told him not to do it, but ignoring my protests, he scooped a spoonful from her dish, a laughing smile on his face. Little Carla's smile fall apart and she began to cry. At the time she was all of three years old. I could see myself telling him off, him not hearing, me carrying Carla to the car, putting her in the car seat, and driving away. I could see it and feel it as though it happened five minutes ago, and once again I was struggling with my anger.
"I believe," he replied. "You're really Fred." Then his face changed, morphing into a wolf-like grin. I don't think wolves can grin, but if they could, they would look like Arrow in that moment: the way a dog looks at a steak, or a cat looks at a fish. "So..." he said, his eyes narrowing and his smile deepening. "What are you going to do with that cute little body of yours?"
"Are you kidding me?" I asked in disbelief. My face burned with indignation.
"I never joke about sex," he replied. "Well, that's not true, but no, of course I'm not joking. Why don't you slip out of your clothes and we can see what you've got to work with?"
"Whoa!" I shouted. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back the hell off! I can't believe you! You've just taken me on a roller-coaster of emotions and memories. You've dug up things that were, frankly, painful to recall. You've pissed me off all over again, and now you just say, Hey, let's fuck?"
"I didn't say those particular words," he observed, "But if that's what you've been thinking, we can go with that."
I scoffed, disgusted, and without thinking said, "Kristy was right."
"It's interesting that you say that," he observed. "Have you thought about why she told me about you?"
"It's obvious!" I retorted. "She wanted us to be able to talk like old friends!"
He laughed, his short bark of a laugh. "No," he responded, smiling and shaking his head. "She was hoping that if I thought you were Fred, I wouldn't want to copulate with you."
"Copulate?" I echoed.
"Do you like the sound of that?" he grinned.
"Good God! You are so freaking full of yourself!"
"Kristy knew that you were coming here for the experience. She was jealous. By telling me that you're Fred, she tried to prevent that from happening."
"That's not why I came here!" I countered.
"You know that I'm the best, and you wanted your first time to be extraordinary."
His emotional blindness amazed me. Somehow he couldn't see how upset I was. Or maybe he did, and he explained it to himself in some crazy way. Probably he figured that if I was in an unstable state, he'd have an easier time getting into my pants. It didn't matter: the fact that he couldn't understand *why* I was upset burned me to the core. I could easily have walked into the night and never spoken to him again.
Why didn't I? I didn't because I'd done it before, and I knew how it felt. Those five years of silence... I regretted them, too. I knew he couldn't understand back then, and obviously he still didn't understand now. Yet, for all his faults, Arrow was a good man. He was generous and kind. Anyone who crossed his path who needed help, he helped them if he could.
Arrow was the sort of man who stops to help a stranger change his tire. He visits neighbors when they're sick, and brings them food. He picks up every hitchhiker he sees. He lent (or gave) people money so they wouldn't lose their homes. He bought paintings from struggling artists and gave them away as gifts.
When someone needs help or encouragement, Arrow doesn't stop to ask if they are friends, or whether they like him, or whether they're deserving. He simply steps in and helps.
Of course, many of the people he helped were frightened by him, or were offended by his insensitivity. He never seemed to understand people's reactions to him, and in these cases he put it down to their being embarrassed about needing help.
Because of that, and because of all we've been through as friends, even though he'd ruined our conversation, the evening, and was potentially ruining our friendship, I wasn't about to give up on him. Still, I had to get my own shots in. So I echoed his word extraordinary? and turned it into a question. "You think you're extraordinary?"
He shrugged and nodded. "Women think so, too."
"How do you know? Do you they write you letters of recommendation?" I sneered.
"As a matter of fact, some have," he replied. He set down his glass and stood to retrieve a binder from a bookshelf. Opening it, he selected two sheets and handed them to me. They were both handwritten, by very different, but obviously feminine, hands.
I scanned them quickly. "This one says I never had an orgasm before and the other one says I've never had SO MANY orgasms before."
"There are others," he said, tilting the folder to show me, "but those two are pretty representative. You can see the rest, if you like."
"No, I don't like," I retorted, handing the sheets back to him. He shrugged and said, "Suit yourself."
I sat there fuming for a few moments, then asked, "So, the fact that I'm Fred doesn't slow your libido?"
"You're not Fred," he replied.
"You just told me I was!"
"You have Fred's memories, but you can't be Fred if you're in that body. I believe they transferred what they could of Fred into that body," he said. Then, quite deliberately and overtly, he ran his eyes slowly from my feet up to my breasts, as though caressing me with his eyes. I had to stop myself from squirming. I didn't want him to see the effect he was having on me. "However, now that you're a woman, you can't be Fred.
"Maybe you can't feel the difference," he continued. "But the quality of your thinking has changed. Now, like all women, you're subject to your emotions and less subject to your intellect. You have no choice in the matter: it's a hormonal fact.
"So, no," he concluded. "The fact that you were Fred is interesting. It's nice that you know all that he knew. But I know that when you take those jeans off, I'm going to find something warm and wet -- something inviting and open. And that is the deciding factor here."
I opened my mouth to talk, then closed it. Most of what he'd said was simply misogynistic baloney, but there was some truth to it... a truth I hadn't considered.
I really wasn't Fred any more. Inside, I felt like Fred. I had Fred's memories and feelings. In spite of Arrow's convictions, I still thought like Fred; I had Fred's values and desires. I still wanted the same things out of life: I hoped my life could be generally peaceful, and I wanted to contribute, to do my bit.
There hadn't been any new urges or yearnings that I'd felt yet... I mean, I didn't want to have babies or find a husband or make a nest. Maybe at some time in the future my biological clock would start ticking, but I couldn't imagine that yet. Maybe it wouldn't happen.
But then again... maybe he was right. In the past when Arrow would offend me, I'd deal with it in my head. This time I was remembering feelings: how badly I felt when wasn't talking to him, how angry I was at what he'd done to Carla, how sorry I felt for his isolation... and another strange feeling, which was a sense of his solidity as a person. Arrow was a rock.
I don't know how long I sat there, stewing in that mix of contradictory emotions. They swirled through me, and I watched them, felt them — and God, I was so worn out. Getting up early, the long drive, the ferry ride, Arrow's frightening greeting, the grilling he gave me, and the strange banter that followed... it was all too much. If I wasn't so worked up, I could have fallen asleep in that moment. I sat, draped across my armchair, with my head down.
Arrow let me sit in my silence for a few moments, then said softly, "Let's try something different," and he held out out his hand. "Put your hand in my mine."
I did. My hand looked small and white against his large, ruddy palm. He didn't close his hand on mine; he let my hand rest there. I still didn't look up.
Then he said, "Come here," in the same soft, low voice. I lifted my head to look at him. "Come sit in my lap. Just see how it feels."
I stood, 117 pounds of awkward, and shuffled toward him. I never felt so Fred as in that moment. Suddenly I understood how slim people who were once heavy could still see themselves as fat, even when the weight was long gone. It was a very uncomfortable, unsettling feeling, but I kept moving toward Arrow, and when I turned, unsure of where to land, he lifted me off the floor and sat me on his thigh. "Lean into me," he said, and I did. "Rest your head on my shoulder," and I did. One arm supported my back; the other rested on my leg.
"How does that feel?" he asked.
"Good," I said. And it did feel good. No one had held me like that since... probably since I was a baby.
He held me in silence. I closed my eyes and felt... oh, what I felt! I felt his strength, his power, his gentleness. I felt protected, safe, at rest. A melody came into my head. At first I didn't know what it was. Then the title percolated up from deep in my memory. It was an old hymn, Leaning On The Everlasting Arms. "A bit blasphemous," I muttered to myself.
Arrow chuckled, but didn't ask what I meant. Instead he said, "Did you bring your pajamas?"
"Yes."
"Could you do me a favor?" I smiled, expecting him to ask me to change into them, but instead he said, "Don't wear them. Don't even take them out of your suitcase."
I laughed softly. He was such a dog. He never forgot where he wanted to go. I said, "Is this what you do?" I meant the whole business of seduction, the way his compass was stuck, pointing toward copulation -- his North Star.
"Yes, this is what I do," he replied. "I understand what women want, and that's why I can bring them there."
"Every woman is an individual," I told him "There's no such thing as what women want."
"Of course there is," he replied. "Some things are hardwired into us. Some women fight it, and it makes them unhappy."
"I wish I could explain to you just how full of shit you are," I said as I burrowed into his embrace.
"Hmmph," he replied. "If I didn't know who you used to be, I would spank you for saying that."
I almost countered with You wouldn't dare! but I stopped myself in time. He would have taken it as an invitation. Instead, I challenged him: "If you know so much about women, why don't you write a book?"
"I have," he replied. "And I'm going to give you a copy. It will help you understand what you've gotten into."
He shifted slightly. I felt his arms reaching toward the coffee table. "Open your eyes," he said. With me still on his lap, he refilled our glasses, emptying the bottle. He put a glass in each of my hands. Then he pulled his dessert plate closer. He hadn't touched his second slice of cheesecake. After shoving two forks firmly into the cake, he set the plate on my belly.
Then, with no effort whatsoever, he stood and carried me upstairs.
Chapter Ten
by Kaleigh Way
The clock read 6:16. The sun was already up. The window was open. I ran, barefoot and naked, into the bathroom, where I peed, washed my face, and brushed my hair. From the sounds below, Arrow was busy making breakfast.
I climbed back into bed and sat with my back against the headboard. The top sheet had come loose, so I draped it around me and hugged my knees to my chest.
Oh, boy! If I had contradictory emotions last night, I had even more contradictory feelings this morning! Diane had warned me that I might feel confused or upset in the morning. Well, I wasn't feeling either of those things... maybe what I felt was a weird mixture of both. Whatever I was feeling, it was messed up.
What I *did* feel was incredibly stupid, but at the same time I felt amazingly good. I felt good and stupid.
I felt stupid because I'd fallen for Arrow's lines, for his tried-and-true seduction techniques, which I was sure I'd find, word for word, in his crazy how-to-do-women book.
Yes, I *wanted* to have sex with him, but... I wanted it to be simple. I didn't want him to be completely in control. I thought it would be a mutual pleasure, a polite mutual agreement of let's do this and then we'd do it together.
It suddenly occurred to me that he wanted me to be angry last night — or at least, he wanted me to NOT be inclined to "copulate" with him. That's where he wanted to begin reeling me in.
Which was stupid. If he'd said to me earlier... after dinner, for instance.... well, basically ANY time before he'd offended me... if he'd said that line "Why don't you slip out of your clothes and we can see what you've got to work with?" — I would have slipped right out of my clothes, right then and there. He could have done his interrogation this morning, after all. He would have had his cake and eaten it, too.
Arrow, of course, didn't see it that way. He didn't want me when *I* was ready for it. He wanted to turn me, to coax me into yes when I was ready to tell him off.
So, yeah... I felt pretty stupid. He played me like a violin.
Still, he didn't trick me. He didn't force me. I got what I wanted, after all. Dammit.
On the other hand, WHOA, did I feel good! I'd *never* had sex like that before. Never. I'd always thought that Kristy and I had a good sex life, but after last night, I felt... well, I felt embarrassed about my performance as Fred.
I'm not going to go into details, but... oh my God. I mean, talk about playing me like a violin! I had to admit, those goofy letters of recommendation were right. I don't know where he learned all the things he did to me, but I wish I'd known some of it when I was still Fred.
He walked into the bedroom while I was still laughing and smiling and blushing to myself. "Oh!" I squeaked. "I didn't hear you come up the stairs!"
"Walk softly and carry a big stick," Arrow quipped. He set the breakfast tray at the end of the bed and looked down at his naked body.
"I see what you mean," I said, and widened my eyes comically.
He tilted his head and squinted at me. "There's something wrong here," he observed, frowning.
"What is it?" I asked.
In answer, he bent forward and whipped the sheet off me, leaving me utterly naked and laughing.
The breakfast was cold by the time we ate it. First, there was the "big stick" delay. Then, for fun (and to show off) he tossed me over his right shoulder and clomped down the stairs, carrying the breakfast tray in his left hand while he played with my derriere with his right.
"You could have saved time by leaving the breakfast here and carrying me down to it," I pointed out.
"Where would be the fun in that?" he asked. "Besides, now we have to reheat the coffee, and the microwave is right over there."
He handed me the coffee mugs, and lifted me up. Luckily I set the mugs on the kitchen counter before we fell to kissing, and the kissing led to another intimate delay.
"Now we can say we've made love in every room of the house," I said, laughing.
"There's only two rooms," he observed. "The upstairs and the downstairs."
"True. But we have done them all!"
It was 8:30 before we were finally able to reheat the coffee.
"We ought to reheat the food as well," Arrow pointed out.
"At the rate we're going, it will take another two hours," I pointed. "The coffee's hot — that's what matters. We can eat the omelets cold."
He shrugged and smiled. "I do like cold toast."
We sat in the living room and devoured the food, sipping the coffee.
"Another pot," Arrow declared. "Then we make plans."
He wanted to hear about the incident at Exeter, and about my life as Dexie so far.
It was no surprise that he approved of Lane. He ignored my mixed feelings and called Lane "a practical man — a man with his head on his shoulders." He was impressed with the money and advice Lane gave me. "Shows constancy," he said, nodding approval.
"So!" Arrow exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "And now... to Spokane! Right? You're on your way to Spokane."
"Well, no," I said. "I have no reason to go to Spokane."
Arrow was stunned. For once, he was speechless. "Wh... Why... How can... no. No. No."
"Lizzie Martineau has nothing to do with me," I explained. "And she had very little to do with Dexie, either."
"She gave you life!" Arrow bellowed. "You have to see her!"
"No," I retorted with distaste. "It's a weird situation. It could even be a trap. Besides, she didn't give me life. I'm not Dexie. I don't have any issues with this woman. As far as I'm concerned, she doesn't exist."
Once again Arrow found himself at a loss for words. He gestured vaguely, searching for a place to begin.
"I'm *not* Dexie," I repeated. "Lizzie Martineau is not my mother."
"In a physical sense, she is. And for all you know, there could still be something of Dexie, somewhere inside you. You're going to have to deal with her sooner or later, and if you don't go see her mother — your mother — you could miss the opportunity. The woman's not going to live forever. Once she's dead, it will be too late."
"No," I declared. "There is no Dexie left inside me. Inside is only Fred."
We sat looking at each other. For once, *I* was the immovable one. For the first time in our long friendship, Arrow stopped, knowing there was nothing he could say.
After a few moments of silence, he said, "I'm going to take a shower," and he walked upstairs.
After the shower stopped and his footsteps moved into the bedroom, I went up. Arrow was putting on his clothes.
"I want to go for a walk," he told me. "Do you want to come?"
"Yeah, I just need to shower first."
"Take your time," he replied. "I'll be outside."
I washed and dressed quickly. After all, I wasn't wearing makeup and I didn't style or dry my hair. I just jumped into my clothes and brushed my hair. It could dry as we walked.
Arrow's change in mood puzzled me. I didn't understand why he should care whether I'd visit Dexie's mother. Maybe it was that thing he said about something of Dexie, somewhere inside. If he really believed that, it would explain his feelings. But I was quite sure that I was the only one in this body. As far as remnants of Dexie, there were none. I specifically asked the aliens that very question: whether Fred's memories were superimposed on whatever was left of Dexie... but they interrupted, saying, "No, only you. She's gone."
If I explained that, maybe he'd drop it.
I grabbed my bag, dropped my brush inside, and ran out to find Arrow.
He was standing in the yard, looking at the sky. As soon as I shut the front door, he turned and started walking toward the road. I had to run to catch up with him.
"Hey," I said, puffing a little, "I have to tell you something." I repeated the whole exchange with the aliens about Dexie being gone. He listened in silence, glanced at me once or twice, and kept walking. At one point he reached down and took my hand and held it for a while.
It was an easy walk; it was all downhill. He obviously didn't want to talk, so once I go to the part where the aliens said, "No, only you. She's gone," I stopped, and the two of us walked in silence. The only sounds were our footsteps, the birds, the breeze rustling the trees, and the occasional boat horn.
Soon we arrived at the ferry terminal, and Arrow bought us tickets. Round-trip tickets. I didn't need to ask where we were going; Seattle was the only destination. I didn't know why we were going, but I didn't mind waiting to find out. Besides, Arrow was still brooding, and he wouldn't talk until he was ready.
The ferry arrived. We went aboard. We got some coffee and took a table.
Once we were underway, Arrow finally spoke. "I don't understand your attitude," he said. "You act as if you just picked up a new body. For you, it's like you bought a new car."
"I guess I do feel that way," I agreed.
He shook his head. "How can you think that? How can have such little respect? Do you know what this girl was doing? Where she came from? Who she was? Where she was going?"
"I don't see why that matters," I replied. "I just think about who she is now."
"Which is you."
"Of course."
"She's dead; you moved in and took over."
"That's pretty cold."
Arrow spread his hands as if to say obviously! or that's what I'm saying!
"It's not as though I'm dishonoring her life," I protested.
"Yes, you are," he countered. "You don't even know what her life was! You don't give a damn about this girl, who basically died for YOU!"
It was like a slap in the face. I opened my mouth to protest, but he went on.
"Don't say that she didn't. If she didn't die, you would have died. Am I right?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Don't you think you should be grateful?"
"I *am* grateful!"
"In what way? What have you done that shows your gratitude?"
That stopped me. I hadn't done anything for Dexie. I hadn't done anything at all.
"You moved in to someone's else house, and you immediately started changing it to suit you. You changed your name. You're going to move somewhere new. You're going to choose which way this life will go."
"Shouldn't I? Shouldn't I make plans of my own? I don't know that she HAD any plans!"
"You could at least deal with her unfinished business. Think about this: what would she have done if she had one more week to live?"
My face fell. I looked at the floor.
"You know what she would have done, don't you?"
"She would have gone to meet her mother," I muttered.
"What? I couldn't hear you!"
"SHE WOULD HAVE GONE TO MEET HER MOTHER," I shouted.
Arrow spread his hands as if to say, Then THAT is what you should do!
Mutely, I protested, so he said, "Didn't you care for this girl at all?"
Well, *that* got me. I teared up. Arrow saw that, and moved in for the kill.
"Tears mean nothing, Fred. Nothing. You owe it to this girl to find out everything you can about her. You need to know her, all the way down to the ground. You need to pick up her business. If that means stepping into that messed-up situation in Spokane... so be it. That's what it means."
"But I KNOW who she was!" I explained. "She was NO ONE! She was a nobody! She didn't do anything! She was just a kid!"
Now it was Arrow's turn to tear up. "God damn it!" he said softly. Then, mastering himself, he stopped the tears and looked at me. "I never thought I'd ever say this, Fred, but I wish you had gone to Vietnam."
"Why?" I cried, horrified.
"Because we were all 'just kids' there," he replied.
The rest of the hour-long trip was an intense monologue on Arrow's part, delivered in a voice so quiet that at times I had to strain to hear. I didn't dare talk; it was serious, it was sacred, and of course in the end I felt like a heartless jackass.
What he wanted to tell me — no: what he wanted me to feel — was that no life was meaningless. No one was a throwaway. There were no walkons or extras in life.
"When we were in 'Nam," Arrow said, "I'm sure there were people who thought that we were nobodies, that we'd never done anything with our lives... Even after we came back. Of course they thought that way. Otherwise, they never would have sent us."
By the time we arrived in Seattle, I was well and properly cowed. Arrow, on the other hand, was upbeat — probably because he'd thrown a heavy weight off his own chest and onto my shoulders. My feet were dragging as we exited the terminal, and I felt pretty low. Arrow gave me a hug and said, "Don't be sad! You can still fix it!"
He took my hand and we walked up from the ferry terminal. Seattle (in case you don't know) is a city built on seven hills — just like Rome and Constantinople/Istanbul. Most everything is either up or down.
We walked for eight or ten blocks, until Arrow stopped in front of a block of a building made of glass, steel, and black stone.
"This is your stop," he said with a gentle smile.
"The Seattle Public Library?" I read, more than a little puzzled.
"Yes," he replied. "Before you meet your mother, there are two things you need to do: research and reconnaissance. We'll talk about reconnaissance tomorrow. Today is the day for research."
I frowned. "Research into what?"
"Benevolence and his cult," he replied. "Isn't it obvious? Before you go, you ought to find out everything you can about the man and his followers. Forewarned is forearmed."
"I don't want to be four-armed," I joked, snaking my arms to make my meaning clear.
"Well, today you only get one arm, if that makes you feel better. The other one comes tomorrow," he retorted, also (thankfully) joking.
"How am I supposed to do that?" I asked him.
"You ask a librarian!"
"And you think that librarians know about cults?"
"Librarians don't need to know everything. What they *do* know is how to find everything. This particular library has great librarians. You'll see. You go and tell them what you want to know, and they will help you find it."
I wanted to protest, but after all he'd said this morning, all I could do was nod.
"I'll meet you at the 5:35 back to Bremerton," he told me. "You know the way to the ferry terminal?"
I nodded again.
At that, he lifted me off my feet and kissed me, leaving me breathless. Then he walked away.
Chapter Eleven
by Kaleigh Way
The librarian listened with a neutral expression as I told her what I wanted to know. I expected her to react somehow, maybe make an expression of distaste, or ask (in a judgemental tone) *why* I wanted to know about such things.
Instead, she simply said, "There are two avenues you can follow. The first is to do a web search — unless, of course, you've already done that."
"I didn't think of it," I replied. "What would I search for?"
"Type in the key words," she replied. "For starters, I would try Spokane cult, then Spokane cult Benevolence, and Benevolence cult."
"Okay, um, is there a computer I can use?"
"Do you have a library card?"
"No, I'm only visiting."
"You can get a guest library card. It will allow you to use a computer for 30 minutes."
I realize this will make me sound incredibly stupid, but I felt so lost, so out of my element that the most intelligent response I could manage was to scratch my head. I understood every word she said. I even knew how to search the internet... or better, how to try to search the internet... but...
Of course I'd type in what I was searching for! It was obvious when *she* said it. And then what? Pages and pages of rubbish... links to click, and when you do you can't see why you were sent there.
I was out of my element, and my face must have shown exactly how far lost I felt. I've never spent much time in libraries, and never willingly. Right now I was a kid again, looking at stacks of books and drawers full of index cards, without a single clue where to begin so I could write my stupid term paper.
"What's the other avenue you mentioned?" I asked, hoping it would be something easier.
"You could look through the Spokane papers," she said. "Many of them are indexed."
"Oh, no!" I involuntarily cried in dismay. "Are you talking about those big fat books, the periodical indexes?" Back when I was in school if you were writing a paper, you HAD to go through those damn, fat books — each one six inches thick. They indexed all the stories and articles that appeared in magazines and newspapers in a given year. THEN, once you found some *titles* that looked promising, you'd have to go find the articles themselves in bookshelves full of other other bound sets that were (hopefully) less thick. Or, you'd have to spin through miles of microfilm. Or worse, microfiche.
I was not up for that at all.
The librarian laughed. "My goodness! If you could see the look on your face! You're awfully young to remember those big periodical indexes! Where did you ever use them?"
I realized my gaff, so I covered by saying, "I didn't. My father told me about them."
"Mmm," she said with a knowing nod. "Your father is a little out of date. Most periodicals and magazines are indexed in online databases, and searching the databases is a lot like searching the internet."
That news didn't make me feel any better. All I could say was, "Oh!" While I was thinking, Internet... big fat books... po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
The librarian took pity on what looked like a little lost girl. She patted the seat of the chair next to hers. "Come sit here. Maybe we can make this a little less painful. Just watch what I do."
She brought up a web-search page and said, "Let's have a quick look-see, just to get the lay of the land, alright?"
She typed the words Spokane cult and hit the Enter key. Nothing relevant turned up. There was nothing about cults at all.
Next, she tried Spokane cult Benevolence and finally Benevolence cult. Nothing of relevance turned up. Nothing at all.
"Okay," she said and smiled at me. "We've drawn blanks. But now that you've seen that, do you think you can manage the database search by yourself?"
I wanted to say yes, but I must have given her a look of silent desperation. She drew a breath, and for a moment I thought she was going to scold me. Instead, she sighed and rolled her eyes. Then she laughed and showed me how it was done.
The librarian didn't find anything about Benevolence. He didn't show up on the internet. The Spokane papers said nothing about him or any cult activity.
"Well, thanks for trying," I told her, and began to stand up to leave.
"Hold on," she said. "You're giving up already?"
"You tried and you didn't find anything," I pointed out.
"I've only just begun," she replied, "and I'm provoked by the fact that I've found nothing. If you want to quit, go ahead, but I'm intrigued now. I have to keep going."
She searched newspapers and public records in the rest of Washington state, as well as Idaho, Montana, and Oregon. In every case, she drew a blank.
"You don't think he could be Canadian, do you?" she asked.
"No, I'm sure he's not."
She looked at me, saw that I was lying, and took a look in British Columbia. Another dead end.
Then she got up from her desk and asked another librarian for suggestions. He listened in silence. Then, he tilted his head and looked up to the left, as if reading something in the air above him. Then he began typing on his computer and frowning at his screen.
At last he jotted the name of an organization and a phone number on a slip of paper. He told me, "This is a clearing house for information about cults. Give them a call. There are other anti-cult groups, but most of them reference this one. Give them a call. If they can't help you, ask them if they know who could."
I thanked them both and went outside to make the call.
The anti-cult clearinghouse person that I spoke with had never heard of Benevolence and didn't know of any cult activity in Spokane or environs. He added, "If this is a new group, they might not be on anyone's radar yet."
"No, they've been around for at least 18 years," I said.
"One thing you could try," he said, "is to check with the courts out in Spokane. See whether anyone has sued this person or his group."
"Why?"
"Because cults misbehave and mistreat people. That sort of thing shows up in criminal charges or civil suits. You can go to the courts yourself to find out, or hire an attorney to find out for you."
I thanked him for his help and hung up. It was a little before noon, and I was already done with my research. At least with what I could do from Seattle. I wasn't interested enough to pursue the legal/criminal aspect, but I'd mention it to Arrow if he pressed me.
For now, I had some time to kill. I could call Arrow, but I didn't want him to know that I was already done. He'd probably find a way to put me back to work.
Besides, I needed a break from being driven and directed by him, and it would be nice to stop and digest all that had happened in the past 24 hours.
It would be even nicer if I could talk through it with someone. Kristy was out of the question. Carla was even more out of the question.
So I called Diane instead.
She answered on the second ring, and right away asked: "Hey, girl! Did you do the dirty deed?"
"Uh, yes, I did," I replied.
"And?"
"It was... pretty exceptional," I confessed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But I feel a little stupid about it."
"Okay. Why do you feel stupid?"
"Hey, Diane, listen: I'm in Seattle right now. I'm in front of the library. Do you want to—"
"Lunch? Hell, yeah! I'm starving! Do you know where the Pike Place Market is?"
It turned out that we were about eight blocks away from each other, so I walked down to the market and met her in a place called The Crumpet Shop.
If you live the UK, or other UK-like countries, crumpets are everywhere. They fall from the trees and roll down the streets. In the US, on the other hand, crumpets are wildly exotic and almost completely unknown.
"Have you ever had a crumpet?" Diane asked.
"No, never."
"You'll love them! I love them! I love this place. I used to come here every day when I lived here before. Well, not every day, but a lot."
We ambled up to the counter. While we studied the menu, the woman behind the counter was studying us. When our eyes drifted down from the menu, she asked, "Are you two sisters or cousins?"
"Us?" I asked. In the same moment Diane replied, "Neither. We're just friends."
"Oh!" The woman looked surprised. "Could have fooled me! You've got some kind of family resemblance there... the eyes, the hair, the jaw... but never mind! Sorry! Do you know what you're having?"
Diane had a crumpet with pesto, tomato, and parmesan. I had one with smoked salmon cream cheese and cucumber slices. While we ate I told her about my night and morning with Arrow. She kept asking for details, but as I gave them, she frowned and shook her head.
"Are you sure you're not exaggerating a bit?" she asked me. "I admit I haven't been with that many guys, but I've never had an experience like that."
I hesitated. I couldn't tell her that it wasn't really my first time. Technically I was a virgin until last night, but there was no way I could explain to Diane what that meant. I'd have to pretend that my sexual history as Fred didn't exist, but because of decades of experience, I *had* been around long enough to know that Arrow was in a class of his own, sexually. It was a point I couldn't press, so I put on a sheeplish look and said, "I dunno. It seemed pretty amazing."
That reassured Diane. The woman behind the counter called, "Ready for another crumpet?"
I was tempted to try the Marmite (it sounded challenging), but Diane talked me out of it.
We both had another cup of coffee and a crumpet with cream cheese and maple butter.
"Let's walk," Diane said. "By the way, I have a present for you!" She reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in paper. Inside was something that looked like a long, knit sack. "It's a hat!" she explained. "When I saw your big mass of curls, I knew you needed one!"
The hat resembled a bag with a hat brim attached.
"It's a slouchy beanie," Diane enthused, and she helped me tuck all my hair inside. From the front it looked pretty good - like an old hippie hat. From the sides and behind, the bag part hung down like loose appendage.
"You see, with that red hair of yours, people can see you a mile away. With this hat, you can be anonymous."
"What do you call this color?" I asked. "Blue? Gray? Light bluish gray?"
"It's argent," she told me. "A light bluish argent."
I turned my head one way and another, looking at my reflection in a store window. I had seen kids wearing hats like these, and with it, I looked like a kid. It worked. "Cool," I replied. "I like it!"
We walked through the market, watched the fish mongers tossing fish. We wandered in and out of stores, looked at restaurant menus, climbed down and up the market stairs... and talked the whole time.
"No offense," Diane said, "But this Arrow guy sounds VERY bossy. Way too bossy, if you ask me. And he sounds like a card-carrying misogynist. No offense."
"Yeah," I admitted. "He is all of that. He can be an asshole, but..."
"Hey," she interrupted. "Just don't marry him!" And she laughed.
"That's never going to happen."
Diane stopped short and made a cross with her index fingers, as if warding off a vampire.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"I'm superstitious about two things," she replied. "One is, I NEVER say Things can't get any worse and the other is, I NEVER say Never."
"You just said it three times!" I told her, laughing.
"That's just different," she said. "I wasn't declaring, like you did. When you say those things, like I will NEVER marry him, I believe that some cosmic being hears that and takes it as a challenge to his or her ingenuity, and they look for some insane, irresistible way of boxing you into doing the one thing you said you'd never do."
"Hmmph," I said. "Well, I'm glad I'm not superstitious."
"It doesn't matter," she said. "Things happen whether we believe in them or not."
I scratched my head. "I... uh... can't deny that!"
She laughed and playfully tugged my hat down over my eyes.
We got some ice-cream cones and walked along the bay as we ate them.
"Diane, I want to ask you something. Why is everyone so interested in whether I meet my birth mother? I don't mean just interested. It seems like everybody who hears about it, immediately gets heavily invested emotionally. Honestly, it's a much bigger deal to you and Arrow than it is to me."
"Mmmm," she assented. "I can't speak for your friend Arrow, but I know why it's a big deal for me. I don't like talking about it, but I was adopted. A very unkind person told me in a very unkind way right on my twelfth birthday. A woman I thought of as my aunt had too much to drink and said to me, This is the day your mother gave you up. After that, it all came out. On that day I was wounded, and that wound has never healed. I've never seen my real birth certificate. I have no idea who my birth parents are. I don't know anything about them. I've tried to find out, but whoever gave me up just closed that door.
"That's one of the reasons I came back to Seattle. I'm pretty sure this is where I was born. At least, this is where I was given up for adoption. I need to save up some money, and once I do, I'm going to hire a detective, and I am going to find out EVERYTHING. That's why it means something to me. I have to admit, when you were talking about meeting your birth mother, it hooked into all my feelings about... you know, MY wish to meet MY birth mother."
She dropped the rest of her ice-cream into a trash bin. "So yeah. It's an ENORMOUS big deal for me. It's something at the core of who I am. Honestly, I don't understand how you can be so... I mean, how you can just shrug it off." She stopped and pulled out some hand wipes. She gave one to me and we stood there, near the Seattle Aquarium, with a stupendous view of the bay. We cleaned the ice-cream stickiness off our hands and faces, and a light breeze brushed across us like a wake up! nudge.
"Who am I?" she asked. "Who am I?"
"You're Diane," I replied. "You're a nurse. You're a person who loves Seattle and has good friends and good values. You're a nice person and a good listener."
"I know all that," she said, "And thanks. But where did I come from? I could have dropped here from outer space for all I know. I could be the Princess of Bratislava. I could be anybody."
"You could be anyone that *you* want to be," I pointed out. "You're not limited by your past, by your family, like most people are."
"No," she said. "It's all back there, in the dark, unknown, and it pulls me down. I need to bring it to the light. I have to find out who my family is. The history that's written in my genes. I need to know.
"I have to know why I was given up. Probably my mother was poor and alone and couldn't afford a child. But now I'm an adult, I could meet her." She paused, and her eyes teared up. "I could *forgive* her. She might need that. I know that I do. I have to look her in the face and tell her that I understand."
At five o'clock I was standing on the sidewalk outside the ferry terminal. One thing I'd learned today was that I had to go to Spokane and meet Dexie's mother. Not for reasons of my own, though: not all. I didn't want to go, and I was sure that I didn't need to go.
The problem was: if I didn't go, everyone would pester me about it and think I was a unfeeling jerk. I didn't feel like a jerk. The woman was not my mother. Still, I could see that no one would ever be able to understand that. Even Arrow, who knew about the body-swap, didn't understand.
I needed to go to Spokane so everyone would quit bothering me about it. It was a small thing to check off my to-do list. Obviously, now was the best time to go.
As I stood there, I also realized that Arrow hadn't told me exactly where he wanted to meet. For all I knew, he'd gotten there ahead of me and was sitting inside. Just as I had that thought, I saw Arrow walking from the Aquarium, along the bay. He looked uncharacteristically happy. His mood seemed so buoyant, I wouldn't have been surprised if he started skipping.
I'm not saying that Arrow is a sad man. But he is a quite serious man. Even when he's joking, you feel like he's leaning out of a high window and calling down to you. He's distant; that's what he is.
To see him smile one of those smiles that emanate from joy inside... that was new; that was rare.
He was wearing a tiny little black leather backpack, slung over one shoulder. It was so incongruous that it made me smile. I nearly burst out laughing at the absurd contrast between the big muscular man and the tiny little backpack.
"Cute backpack!" I called out in a teasing tone. He simply smiled back. I was trying to embarrass him, so I added with a shout, "Isn't that a girl's backpack?"
He bounded toward me, laughing, and scooped me with one arm so he could kiss me. "Yes, it's a girl's backpack. You're a girl, aren't you?"
"Is that for me?" I squeaked. God, when and how did I become so girly?
"Yes," he said, but when I reached for it, he held it up, so high that I couldn't touch it.
"Hey!" I protested with (what I hoped was) a cute pout.
"There are surprises inside," he confided. "For later. One is for your trip, and one is for your future."
Then he bent toward me, looking at my head in profile, tilting his head this way and that. He was looking at my new beanie with a critical eye. "Nice hat!" he said. "I like it! I was looking for something like that, but this style would never have occurred to me. Excellent choice! You're going to need that, too!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked him.
Chapter Twelve
by Kaleigh Way
It wasn't as though the ferry's boat horn was a signal to start talking, but after we'd pulled out into the bay and the horn sounded, I gave Arrow a blow-by-blow of my library adventure.
He was disappointed that I didn't get any results, but he did acknowledge that there wasn't much more to do.
"It sounds like they operate under the radar," he observed. "Smart."
"Or maybe it's not actually a cult," I suggested. "All we know is what Lane said."
Arrow bristled. "I believe him. He seems like a straightforward, clear-sighed type."
"Like you," I suggested ironically.
"Yes, like me," he replied, missing my irony entirely.
"Fine," I said, "but I'm a little more open minded about the Spokane situation now."
"You are?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yes, I am," I replied, although I didn't realize it until the moment I'd said it. "Lane saw everything through a very small window, and most of what he knew, he knew through Lizzie."
"He also visited this Ark place of theirs," Arrow pointed out.
"Yes, but..." I stopped. "Listen, we're just guessing. Can we look at what's in the backpack now?"
He smiled at that. Then he put his hand on the bag, as if to secure it, and looked all around, to get a read on everyone who could potentially see or hear anything.
"Is this Mission Impossible?" I asked with a smile. He bristled at that.
"This is reconnaissance," he replied. "This is the other part of being ready. And being ready is what it's all about."
The first item he pulled out was a pair of dark glasses. I burst out laughing.
Arrow looked offended. "Don't underestimate the obvious," he chided. "These are Ray-Bans, by the way, so..." and he held up a hand to say slow down the criticism.
"They are nice," I said, putting them on. I could see my reflection in the ferry window, and they definitely added to my cachet. "Thanks!"
"Anonymity is key. The hat, the glasses, help to provide that. If someone sees your hair, they might connect you with your mother. If they see your face, they might connect you with either your father or your mother. You'll be giving away your greatest advantage if you let yourself be identified."
"Okay," I agreed, although I was stifling the urge to laugh.
The second item he pulled out was a set of three maps. "These are maps of Spokane. It's a bigger city than I expected." He unfolded one and pointed to a block highlighted in yellow. "Right here is the Happy Place diner that Lane mentioned. Directly across the street is a fairly inexpensive hotel. If you get room on a low floor in front, you should be able to stake out the diner, watch all the comings and going, and get some idea of what these people do."
"If what Lane said still applies," I cautioned.
"It's all we have to go on," Arrow replied. "Even if they don't meet there now, you can still go ask questions and find out something. At this point, all you have is a telephone number. We need a lot more. We need information."
He thought for a moment. "Which reminds me: let's try giving your mother a call tonight, and see what you're able to ask her. We can work up a set of questions. You'll have to play it by ear, since we don't know how she'll respond."
I nodded. "Okay."
He then extracted a pair of binoculars and a small, very flat camera.
"Check this out," he said, turning the camera on. With a soft whirr, the lenses telescoped out of the flat little camera body. "It's got a 20X zoom, which is remarkable considering how skinny it is. You could fit this in the pocket of your jeans."
I nodded appreciatively.
"You need to take pictures of your mother, and that Benevolence character if possible. It will give you an idea of how you'll age."
"Hmmph," I responded, slightly miffed.
"Of course, you should photograph all the followers, or potential followers, as well."
I nodded, turning the camera over in my hands, pressing buttons, looking at the display and so on.
"The idea," Arrow said, "is that you tell your mother that you're coming in two, or even three, weeks. In reality, you go right away, but keep out of sight. Then you watch. You listen, if possible. You gather information any way you can, but make sure at every step that you don't play your hand."
"And what exactly is 'my hand'?"
He looked at me as if I were a simpleton. "Your identity, of course! The fact that you're Lizzie's daughter, and likely Benevolence's daughter as well."
I'd heard that name Benevolence a dozen times today. I'd said it myself, but this time a chill ran through me.
"Arrow, have you given any thought to the possibility that this could be dangerous for me? I mean, if what Lane said is true, they may want to abduct me — maybe even brainwash me."
"Yes, of course!" he agreed. "Why do you think I insisted on your going to the library? Why do you think I'm telling you how to spy on them? This is all about your safety! And that's exactly why I got you this!" With that, he pulled a small box from the backpack.
It was a GPS tracker. "This beauty is smaller than a cell phone, and it has a three-week battery. As long as you have this, I can track you anywhere. It constantly transmits your position to a secure website, where it's recorded and timestamped.
"You need to recharge it every night. NEVER shut it off. If you shut it off, it means you need help. If someone else shuts it off, it means you need help. If it shuts off, I'm coming, even if it turns back on, even if you call me to say Don't come. Carry it on your person at all times. If you think something's about to happen, stick it in your underwear."
That was the last straw. Until now, whenever I'd think about the trip to Spokane, it was only to consider whether I would or wouldn't go, or whether I wanted or needed to go. Now that it was becoming a reality, and seeing all the preparations that Arrow had taken, I began to feel afraid.
I've never been a fearful person, but sitting next to this tall, muscular man forced me to recognize how small I am now. Emotionally, I think I could handle almost anything, but physically... I doubted I'd be equal to the task. I wouldn't have a problem kicking, screaming, scratching, and fighting dirty if it came to that, but I was no ninja. Cynthia Rothrock and Xena had nothing to fear from me.
Arrow had been watching my face, and there he read the doubt, fear, and worry that were running through me. He placed his hand over mine and in a soft voice asked, "Do you want me to come with you?"
Oh, lord... now that snapped me out of it. Arrow is a great friend. He's an amazing lover. And I'm sure he'd come off well in a fight. But in and above all that, he is an enormous pain in the ass. If he came to Spokane with me, he'd be insupportable. I was sure of it. He'd be guiding and directing me the entire time, whether I wanted his help or not. It was clear that Arrow had a detailed vision of how my trip was supposed to unfold, and if he came along, he'd make sure that every step he envisioned became a reality.
And so, I told him, "I think this is something I need to do myself."
He seemed pleased with my answer, which annoyed me to no end, but I managed to stifle my reaction.
"It's only four hours away," he reminded me. "If something happens, that's a good enough margin. After all, these people don't want to hurt you. As you've said, they want to bring you in, make you a follower. Maybe try to brainwash you. But even a day — I mean twenty-four hours — isn't enough time to break down your mental defenses."
"My mental defenses," I repeated.
"Yes, your mental defenses," he echoed.
"I guess I've got them in spades," I commented.
"Don't be so sure," he replied. "Never underestimate your opponent. Just remember, though: now you're a woman, so you can always unleash the irrational."
"What?" I exclaimed, offended and surprised.
He waved off my objections with two hands, as if to say, We don't have time for this now.
Then he reached into the very bottom of the backpack and — holding it underneath the table — he extracted one last item. I expected him to hand it to me or at least set it on the table, but instead he shoved it to the bottom of one of his capacious pockets. Then he pushed the empty backpack across the table to me.
"What was that?" I asked, more than a little curious.
"What?" he responded, as if he had no idea what I was referring to.
"What did you just put in your pocket?"
"It's something for later. Don't pester me about it now. Everything has its own time. You'll see."
When we arrived back home, after trudging up the hill from the ferry, I was pretty tired and a little sweaty. Arrow, on the other hand, looked as though he could keep going for hours.
"Before we go in the house I have to show you one more thing," he said.
"Can't it wait?" I whined. "I'm tired and dirty and thirsty. I feel funky all over."
"This won't take long," he told me.
He opened his garage. I followed him inside. His car, the 911, was sitting there. Next to it was another car, covered by a tarp. It turned out to be a Porsche Boxster.
"You can take this car to Spokane," he told me.
"Really?"
"Yes, really. I don't use it. I got a good deal on it... someone needed to raise some money quickly. At some point, he'll buy it back. Or not. In any case, you're free to take it. My insurance will cover you."
"This is the car you brought to my funeral!" I said, recognizing it.
"Yep." He ran his hand over it, as if it would somehow tell him the state of the car.
A sudden suspicion struck me. "Hey... did you buy this car for that girl?"
"What girl?" he asked, frowning.
"The smoker. The one who drove you to the wedding."
He responded with a phffft!
"Why did she drive you?" I asked. "You never let anyone else drive, let alone a woman."
"I was getting over the flu," he replied. "I felt like hell. Also, I was upset that my best friend on earth had died... or so I thought." He glared at me briefly to remind me of my sin.
"Anyway," he continued, "You ask a lot of questions about that girl."
"I do not!"
"Yes, you do. You have no reason to be jealous, believe me. There is nothing there."
"I'm not jealous!"
In response, he put up his hands as if in surrender. It was my turn to go phffft!
Later, over some cheese and wine, he explained, "This is the idea: you drive out to Spokane, fill the tank with gas, and park the car in a garage. Pay for a month in advance and then forget the car exists."
"Why would I forget about it?"
"The car is your getaway vehicle. Don't tell anyone you have a car. In fact, we need to look at the bus schedules, because you might need to know which bus you supposedly arrived on. It might be a good idea to go to the bus terminal when a Seattle bus arrives, and go to your hotel from there.
"The car needs to be a secret. Don't use it to get around, to run errands, to carry stuff. Don't use it at all. It's there in case you need to escape. Nothing else. No one can know you have it, so you need to forget it's there until you need it."
"Got it," I said.
Then he talked about what we should put in a "go bag" that I'd keep in the trunk.
It was all so Mission Impossible, the way Arrow mapped it out. I had the plan, I had the protocols: one protocol for the GPS (always on, recharge every night; if it goes off for any reason, Arrow comes to the rescue), one protocol for the car (fill the tank, park it long-term, never mention it), and one protocol for my phone.
I had to check in every morning by phone with Arrow. I had a key phrase: I had to ask What time is it? If I called and didn't say it, Arrow would come. If I called and simply forgot to say it, Arrow would come. If I didn't say it, he wouldn't prompt me for it, and he would carry on a normal conversation, but he would assume that I was in trouble and drive to Spokane the moment he hung up.
"That way, if someone knows that you call me each morning and they force you to call me, you can say whatever they want you to say, but I will know that you're in trouble."
"All of this is so elaborate!" I complained.
"It's not," he countered. "It's simple. You just need to remember and do it. It's failsafe, all of it. You remember, or I drive out there."
"And I don't want that!" I joked, laughing. (Half-joked, rather!)
He laughed, too, but said, "If anyone gives you any trouble... I will make them pay. Know that."
Our second night and morning together were much like the first. The sex was amazing, mind blowing, almost more physically stimulating than I could bear, and certainly more powerful than I ever dreamed sex could be.
On the other hand, in the quiet moments, as I lay staring at the ceiling wide-eyed, recovering, catching my breath, I'd think about those letters of recommendation and nearly burst out laughing.
We agreed that I'd take off for Spokane as soon as I was dressed, and by nine o'clock we were standing in the driveway. The car was packed, and everything primed for blast off.
"Before you go, there's one more thing," Arrow said. He shifted his feet, crunching the gravel underfoot. Some birds flew overhead, but there was nothing else to hear or see but the woods all around us.The Boxster sat ready, pointing toward the road, and I was itching to get behind the wheel and turn the key. I wanted the Spokane trip over and done with. The sooner I left, the sooner I'd be back.
Arrow cleared his throat and swallowed. He actually looked nervous, which puzzled me no end. He murmured, "The last item from the backpack," and reached into his pocket.
He produced one of those tiny boxes, about an inch cubed. It had a hinged top, which he opened as he dropped to his left knee.
"Oh, no, you've GOT to be kidding!" I exclaimed, more in shock than surprise.
He held the box toward me, showing me the ring: I've looked at it a lot since then, but I still don't know it by heart. There's a platinum band, holding a round, brilliant, two-carat diamond. It's beautiful. Looking into that stone is like looking into another world. You could stare at it all day.
"This is crazy, Arrow," I told him. My body shook. I wanted to run away.
"I know it's crazy," he said. "But at the same time, it's the only thing that makes sense. I want you to marry me. I'm asking you now, but I don't want your answer — whether yes or no — until you come back from Spokane. I don't want you to comment or decide or declare anything at all right now. Please just hear me out, and when I'm done I want you to take the ring, get in the car, and leave without saying a word."
He took a breath before continuing. "I've never been able to be friends with a woman... until now. You know why. You... you're different. You're unique. We're already friends, and now that you're a woman, there's a whole new dimension to who you are.
"You know who I am. You know what I am. You know more about me than any other living person. You know how we are together. You know that sexually we're right there. We mesh; we have real chemistry, the kind that other people wish for.
"You know all my good and bad qualities. You know my history.
"And I know you. I know more about you than you know about yourself, and I can bring things out in you that you want and need. With me, you will blossom as a woman and as a person.
"As far as the material aspect is concerned, you wouldn't have to work. We'd own everything equally: my bank account, my house — everything I own. You'd be my only heir, my executrix, and my sole beneficiary when I die.
"Finally, if you decide to marry me, we can do it any way you like: in front of a justice of the peace, or in an informal ceremony, or the full-blown church wedding with the white dress, the flowers, and the big reception. Whatever you want."
At that point, he stood. He closed the ring inside the box, put the box in my hand, and closed my hands around around the box.
"Don't say a word, even if you feel that you're already sure," he said. "Think about it on the long ride to Spokane and while you're out there. If you have any questions, you can ask me when you call."
He smiled and kissed me. I was utterly shocked and shaken. It was the most insane thing anyone had ever asked of me.
"Take care of yourself out there in Spokane," he told me in a soft voice. "Remember: if you need me, all you have to do is whistle."
Dear God, it was the farthest thing from what I wanted. I tried to make a joke of it: I puckered up my lips and blew, but my mouth was so dry, all I could do was puff.
Chapter Thirteen
by Kaleigh Way
The trip from Arrow's house to Spokane is actually five hours, not four. The driving time from Seattle to Spokane is four, but before you get on the road, you need to take the ferry from Bremerton to Seattle, which is an hour.
In other words, I had a ton of time to think. If only I was able to think.
My brain had short-circuited. I couldn't comprehend Arrow's insane proposal. It wouldn't replay in my head. My mind, for once, was well and truly blown. My head was totally empty.
I drove the Boxster onto the ferry, turned off the engine, and climbed the stairs to the passenger area. Once there, I plopped down at a table in the sun. After staring into space for a few minutes, I dug into my pack and pulled out the little box. I opened it and placed it in the sun. The diamond caught the sun and magnified it. The effect was insanely, blindly bright, but I didn't care. I let it glow. People paused and stared, but I must have looked terribly depressed, because only one person dared to stop and talk. Her name was Jane — no last name given. She was in her late fifties, about as old as I'd be if were still Fred.
"Have you put it on your finger yet?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Are you going to?"
"No."
"Then why do you still have it?"
"The ring?" Her question snapped me out of my trance. After giving my head a wake up! shake, I shut the little box with a dull snap and shoved it all the way down to the bottom of my backpack. "He didn't want to hear my answer right away."
"Did he know you'd say no?"
"No," I replied. "He assumes I'll say yes."
"But you won't."
"No. Not for all the tea in China."
Jane smiled. "And yet you sit and stare at the ring."
The conversation with Jane lasted a lot longer than I would have liked. Jane was a busybody, which (believe it or not) was fine at the start. It was nice to have someone else go through all my thoughts and feelings. It was like having someone fold your laundry for you. Nice, right? Except, imagine that they have a dozen questions for every item they touch. And not questions about whatever it is you're talking about. Just questions. Personal questions. That was Jane. She'd obviously gone through some marriage drama of her own. She didn't say so, but you could see it behind the questions she asked. Once upon a time maybe she had had to say no. Maybe she had lacked the courage to say no, and ended up marrying the wrong person.
I'm just guessing, and honestly I don't care. I did find myself wondering at times whether she was wanted something from me besides the details of my personal life. But Jane wasn't a con man. She was just a busybody.
The difference between a con man and a busybody is that a con man gives you something to win your trust; they hand you their heart, so to speak. With it, they buy your trust. Only then do they work their scam. The busybody, on the other hand, simply takes. They don't give you even the smallest part of themselves. They never confide in others. They don't bother to win your trust. They're opportunists: if they see your front door open, they walk in, look around, and start opening drawers and cabinets. They keep going until their time or their curiosity runs out, or you catch them in the act and throw them out.
Jane saw right away that I was vulnerable: I had (in a sense) left my front door open. It must have been obvious: a young girl, traveling alone, staring at an engagement ring. If Arrow hadn't made his stupid marriage proposal I would have been more on my guard. Jane wouldn't have found an opportunity to talk.
Still, as I said, at first it was a good thing. She drew me out. She made me talk about what had happened, what I felt, what I meant to do, what I wanted to say to Arrow, and so on. It helped to clarify things for me.
Then, Jane made a misstep: she wanted to know where I was going. Not to be rude, I told her. On that pretext, she dove into what she expected to be a deep pool of negative feelings, resentments, and existential doubts.
"Are you angry?" she asked me. "Hurt? Afraid?"
"No," I replied, puzzled. Why would I feel hurt or afraid? Honestly I wasn't paying attention. I had no idea what she was talking about.
"Meeting your birth mother for the first time! That's a big event in a young girl's life!" Jane declared, watching my face, hungrily waiting for my reactions.
Meeting my birth mother? "Oh, please," I said dismissively. "I am tired to death of that subject."
Quite naturally, Jane assumed that my indifference was feigned; that it was only a cover for my real, much stronger feelings. She kept poking and digging, trying to ferret out the angst and depression she was sure I kept inside.
Instead, all she did was irritate me. I'm sure she knew that she was irritating me, but she kept on doing it. I told her outright that I didn't feel like talking any more, but she kept on. I told her again, but again she ignored it. In spite of my frowns, my monosyllabic answers, the way I kept looking at the time — and in spite of my final lapse into silence — she kept up a steady stream of questions. Time to walk away, I told myself, and grabbing my pack, I told her that I needed some air. She followed me outside. I walked away from her while she was talking, but still she followed. I couldn't shake her off. She clung to me like an emotional leech.
Thankfully, I hadn't told her about my car. Arrow was quite right: when I got to Spokane, I would make that car disappear. If Jane had known I was going to my car, she would have asked for a ride. Even if I'd said no, she would have walked along with me. I was determined to deny her the opportunity. A few moments after the announcement to Please go to your cars, I saw my chance: Jane went fishing in the depths of her bag, trying to find her phone.
Without a word, I turned and sprinted up an outside staircase to the next level. There, out of her sight, I took a different staircase down, all the way to the car level. I didn't feel safe until I was locked inside, sitting in the driver's seat, with my beanie hiding my hair and my Ray-Bans disguising my face. Again, I had to admit it. Arrow was right: Don't compromise your escape.
When people think of Washington state, they usually picture Seattle's Space Needle and think of the word rain. It's fair, I suppose. There are actual rain forests on the Olympic Peninsula, west of Seattle.
What most people don't know is that the eastern part of the state is desert. Desert desert. Dry, empty, except for a sparse sprinkling of little towns with two-digit populations. There's very little to see, so there's plenty of "scope for the imagination," as Anne Shirley would say. In other words, plenty of time to talk to myself, curse and swear, and smack the steering wheel in frustration.
Stupid Arrow! Stupid, stupid Arrow and his stupid, stupid ring! The solution was simple, of course: I'd tell him no. It would never work. He would drive me up the wall.
Of course I wanted to be his friend, and maybe occasionally his lover, but never his wife.
I'd just finished one life and started another. It was not the time to get tied down. Kristy and I were married for more than 20 years... I forget exactly how many more... I never could remember. The point was, my life had just begun again. Arrow could live another 30 years! I would be 48 before I'd be free again. There was just no way.
Still, the ring... the stupid ring. I wished I could tell him no and keep the ring, but that could never happen.
That was one thing Jane had gotten badly wrong. She thought that I was staring at the ring because I was indecisive. No. There was no way I would marry Arrow. NEVER. I was quite confident that it would NEVER happen, and yes, I had ZERO qualms about using the word NEVER, in spite of Diane's superstitious warning about that word.
The reason I was staring at the ring was something quite different. For an ordinary girl, a girl who'd grown up as a girl, the ring would have represented the relationship. Her feelings about the ring would reflect her feelings about the man and her vision of their future together. Or the feeling that they had no future together.
For me, the ring represented something entirely different. Here I was, not even two weeks a girl, and already I had a marriage proposal. The ring was a very concrete and expensive proof that I had become someone else. The term objective correlative came to mind: the ring, just by its existence, proved that this wasn't a dream. I really was Dexie Lane, an eighteen-year-old girl.
It also represented just how complicated this new life seemed to be from the very get-go. I assumed that I could simply pick up and live any way I pleased; that I could go anywhere and do or be whoever and whatever I wished. Instead, I kept finding myself entangled in remnants of my life as Fred and complications from Dexie's personal history. Everything conspired to tie me down.
Arrow was just supposed to be a simple fling: an exemplary case of casual sex. Instead, it turned into a marriage trap that could potentially tie me up until I was as old as Fred was when he died.
This trip was another example: I never wanted to go! I didn't want to meet Dexie's mother — or worse, Benevolence, her apparent father. But again, everything conspired to compel me to go. If I didn't go, if I didn't cross it off the list of Dexie's Things To Do, people would pester me about it until the day I died. They'd look at me as if I were a heartless monster if I didn't go.
But Dexie... the real Dexie... she wanted to go. She was quite excited about going to Spokane. In fact, it was the first and only time I'd seen her display any excitement. She positively looked forward to meeting her mother. I didn't see any trace of anger or resentment or doubt.
Now that I thought about it, Dexie had never shown any resentment toward anyone, not even toward her foster family, the Lanes. In spite of the way they treated her! And to think: in her mind they didn't even have the excuse of being a foster family. Not that it would be a valid excuse, but if she'd known she wasn't their child, she would have had an explanation for their behavior.
I couldn't understand Dexie's positive attitude. I guess I never understood her at all. No, it's not a guess: I'm *sure* I didn't. I'd always told myself that there was nothing to know.
And now, Dexie was gone. Poor Dexie! She was dead, stopped in her tracks before her life had really begun.
I pictured her in my place, a smile on her face, the phrase I'm going to see my mother! on her lips.
Then, weirdly enough, I pictured her picturing me in her place. I pictured her laughing. Why? Because if Dexie couldn't go, I was sure would have wanted me to go in her place. That's what Dexie would do.
So, sure, yeah, I could go in Dexie's place. It wasn't hard to see what she'd want me to do.
But what would *she* do, now, if she were in my shoes? Who knows? If she'd gone North by herself, could she have gone to Arrow's house? I suppose so. Would she have found the same chemistry? Maybe she would have. Chemistry is a physical thing, isn't it? Would Arrow have helped her prepare? He might. He is both kind and overbearing — he's that way with everybody. So, yes, he probably would have listened to her story and helped her prepare for the trip. Would he have lent her this car? Again, yes, probably. It was the sort of thing Arrow would do.
Would he have gotten down on one knee to her, like an idiot?
Ha! I don't know. Maybe he would have. Maybe part of his proposal was provoked by his wanting a young bride, to prove his virility. Who knows?
Would Dexie have said yes?
*That* was an interesting question. Interesting because I had no idea what the answer could possibly be. Would she be pleased? Would she pull back from his controlling dominance? Would she write him a letter of recommendation for his sexual performance?
I laughed at that thought. Letters of recommendation. Who does that?
Still, I couldn't stop picturing Arrow on his knee, holding a ring in front of the *real* Dexie. Not me. The Dexie who was born Dexie. Dexie herself, alive.
Picturing that was as irresistible as staring at the diamond ring. What would Dexie do?
The fact that I didn't know, and couldn't guess, only spotlighted the abyss that lay between me and the girl whose life I was now living.
The real Dexie was gone. Irrecoverably gone.
Arrow had chosen a parking garage, and the car's GPS guided me to it. I parked in a spot covered by two security cameras, and took everything except the go bag, which I left in the trunk.
The go bag was an option for the worst-case scenario: it was there if things got so bad that I needed to leave with nothing but what I was wearing. The bag contained a complete change of clothes, including sneakers. It had a stack of energy bars, a pay-as-you-go cell phone with activation card, $200 in cash, and a photocopy of my drivers license. It also contained a big pack of wet wipes (in case I needed to "shower" on the run), along with unscented baby powder and a hair brush (to serve as a dry shampoo).
There was also a six-pack of two-liter water bottles.
I put the car key in a magnetic box, and with a little struggle managed to fix it to a hidden, hard-to-reach spot underneath the car.
After all that, I honestly felt a lot better and much more secure, knowing it was there, ready, whenever I needed it.
Hopefully, I wouldn't need it.
Before I left the garage I tried calling my mother again, but once again, I only got the machine.
Arrow had questioned whether this was some sort of ploy. "It might be a trick to get you to go to that diner."
"It can't be that," I told him. "For one thing, it's unnecessary, and for another, they have no reason to think I know about the diner. It was Lane who mentioned it, not Lizzie."
I took a cab to the bus station and walked around for a bit. I found the arrival gate for the bus from Seattle. That done, I took a different cab to my hotel. The Happy Place was directly across the street. I took a few moments to assess the angles and the view.
Arrow had made my reservation, which irked me, even if it did save me the bother. He had asked for "second floor, front," and the view from one of the windows was perfect. I could see the entire storefront, and through the glass the first few tables. A filmy, very dusty curtain covered the window, and allowed me to watch the diner without being seen. Once I cleared the lamp and clock-radio off the nightstand, I had a perfect perch.
I watched for twenty minutes. Nothing happened. I could only see three of the customers. None of them were redheads. No one came in or out, except when the cook emerged to smoke a cigarette. He lit a second one, and the waitress came out. She spoke. He spat. He gesticulated. They argued briefly and intensely, but I couldn't hear a word: my windows were closed, and I was pretty sure they'd hear if I opened one.
The waitress went back inside. The cook scowled, spat again, and hurled his cigarette into the gutter. Then he, too, went back inside.
Watching the diner was even more boring than it sounds.
On the other hand, it did bring back memories. Nowadays you don't see many diners, but when I was a kid there was one in every town. At least, in every town I'd ever been in. Most, but not all diners, had the glass-and-steel look of a streamlined train — as did the Happy Place. The diners I knew were open 24 hours a day, and after a night of partying, my friends and I would often finish the evening with breakfast at a diner.
For that reason, I have a certain nostalgia for diners. When you've ended so many memorable nights that way — good and bad nights — you develop a certain comfortable feeling for that world of steel and glass and formica.
My experience with diners became even more intimate during the summer after my second year of college. I got a job as a short-order cook at a diner near school, and I kept that job until the summer after I graduated. During those two years, there were periods when I worked every day. I pulled maybe a dozen 24-hour stints.
In the end, I got tired of it. I'd begun to feel like my skin was covered in grease. After I quit the diner and got what my father called a "real" job, I avoided diners, so I didn't notice when the diners all quietly disappeared.
Yet here was one, an old-style streamlined diner: the Happy Place. A blast from the past, decked out in steel, glass, and formica. From my perch I could even make out the little jukebox controls on every table.
After checking in with Arrow, and a few boring hours of watching, I began to get hungry. I could have called the front desk to ask for a recommendation, but after sitting for hours in the car and then the room, I needed to move. I wanted to get outside. So I walked downstairs.
"If you're hungry," the man at the desk informed me, "the diner across the street is your best bet. The food's pretty good."
"Well, maybe," I said. "What are the alternatives?"
"Do you have a car?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"Well, unless you feel like calling a cab, it's either the diner or the pizza place around the block. Between you and me, though, I wouldn't eat anything that oozed out of THAT place. And I've had all my vaccinations."
"Okay," I laughed. "I give up: the Happy Place it is!"
Chapter Fourteen
by Kaleigh Way
The moment I stepped into the diner, I had to take off my shades. Not because it was dark, but because I felt like a jackass wearing dark glasses inside. I never liked wearing dark glasses in the first place, and always felt that people who wear them indoors look silly.
A quick look around told me that there were no tables — I mean, no free-standing tables. There were only booths and the counter. Three solo men perched on the stools at the counter. The waitress cleared the dishes from a recently vacated spot.
One of the smaller booths in back held a young couple. They were so immersed in each other that they didn't give me a second look. I doubt they even heard the tinkling of the bell as I opened and closed the door. On the other hand, a group of five women, who shared a big booth, stopped talking and openly stared at me. One of them scanned me from the soles of my sneakers to the top of my beanie. Her face registered a conditional initial disapproval. Once their visual inspection of me was complete, they went back to their conversation.
I had wanted to sit at a booth in the back so I could see the whole place and watch the comings and goings, but that would put me next to the lovey-dovey couple. I'm no prude; I just wasn't in the mood for all that mush. So I let go of my surveillance goals for the evening, and slid into one of the window booths.
The menu was typical diner fare, although it boasted that their soups were "homemade."
Apropos of soup, the five women were in mild disagreement over whose turn it was to "bring the soup." While they all agreed about who had gone last time, they argued over who was *supposed* to have gone, who never goes, who went three times in the past week in someone else's place, and so on. At last, a woman named Desiree declared that she would go, but the others would "owe her." This extended the discussion for another five minutes, and in the end Desiree grudgingly agreed that she wasn't doing anyone a favor; she was only doing what she was supposed to do, and "there are no prizes for that."
Their deliberations and negotiations lasted so long, that by the time Desiree exited the diner, carrying a 32-ounce plastic container full of chicken soup, I was being served my dinner. I'd ordered a Greek salad and a side of onion rings. Weird combination, I know, but what the heck. I am eighteen years old, after all.
The food was pretty good. I mean, you could eat it. It wasn't bad. There wasn't anything wrong with it. Sure, no one would come here for the cuisine: it was nothing to write home about, but it was nothing to complain about, either.
While I ate, I studied the menu, and my days as a short-order cook started coming back to me. Funny isn't it? I mean, the way we can entirely forget huge portions of our lives until some trigger brings it all back. I hadn't given a thought to any of it for at least 25 years, but now the memories came flowing and flashing back in bits, pieces, and big chunks. I knew how to make all the dishes on the menu, how to work the kitchen, how to stage the orders, and so on. I could see myself as a young Fred, not much older than I am now, wiping the sweat from my forehead, flipping pancakes, flipping burgers, chopping salads, watching the deep fryer... I laughed as I recalled the difficulty I had learning how to cook eggs over easy. Once the yolk broke, it was over. And for a long time, the yolk always broke. The first time someone ordered "over easy" I wasted a dozen eggs, and finally had to admit defeat. Luckily the customer understood, and settled for sunnyside up.
A few times during my meal, I head the cook growling about something or other. I couldn't make out the words, but each time he started up, the waitress went back to quiet him down. He'd shout and tell her to get out, but the grousing would stop for a bit.
He must do that a lot, I figured, because the customers studiously ignored it.
The waitress, whose name was Clara, grabbed a pot of coffee and made the rounds of the tables. The group of women wanted to know what was up. One threw out the opening, "That one's gonna blow a blood vessel if he keeps on that way! He needs to chill out!"
"Yeah," another put in, "He's been awful grouchy lately. What's up with him?"
"It's the hours," Clara confided. "He's been here from five in the morning to one in the morning every day—"
The women expressed their surprise and indignation, struggled to calculate exactly how much time that amounted to, and wondered how he could get home in time to get any sleep.
"He doesn't go home," Clara replied. "He's been sleeping on some boxes in the storeroom."
Where does he wash? I wondered, but I didn't dare say it aloud.
One of the women asked, "Why doesn't Jeff hire another cook?"
"He says he will — or that he *is* hiring someone," Clara answered. "But I haven't seen anybody come in, and there's no HELP WANTED sign in the window..." She trailed off and everyone in the place turned to look at the front window. Sure enough, there was no sign to be seen.
"Andy says he wasn't being paid enough before he started working all day long. He says he's being taken advantage of, and he's right: he's doing the work of two or three people and getting paid for one..."
The women made noises of disapproval and all of them began speaking all at once. Clara filled their coffee cups as they chatted away.
I looked at Clara's face. She turned and our eyes met for an instant. We had one of those sudden moments... you know, when you glance at someone and in that momentary glance a flood of information is exchanged. I realized that Clara was in the same situation as the cook, working virtually all day long and not getting paid enough.
Clara gestured toward me with her coffee pot and made her escape from the women.
I didn't want to continue with the same subject, so as she filled my cup I asked her something that I honestly wondered: "Are the soups really homemade?"
"Oh, yes!" she said. "They certainly are! If you want to eat healthy here, you'll have the soup. The salads are fine, but all the nutrition is in the soups. Onion rings are fine if you want to get fat, but..." She smiled and winked and gave me a nudge. It was so good-natured that I laughed in response, and as I did, she walked back behind the counter and picked up a partly-completed crossword.
Nothing else happened while I was there. The women nattered on about their jobs, gossiped about people they knew, but they never mentioned the names Benevolence or Lizzie or The Ark. They seemed like perfectly normal people, and I couldn't imagine them as members of a cult. They certainly didn't seem like women who were sexually available in the way that Lane had described.
When I finished my meal and declined Clara's offers of dessert, I paid my bill and returned to the hotel. There didn't seem to be anyplace else of interest in the neighborhood, at least at this hour.
Because the evening was cool and the air was fresh, I turned off the air conditioning and opened the window. It was very quiet outside, and for a while I lay on the bed, listening to soft sounds of Spokane at night.
While I stared at the ceiling, I had an odd sensation. I suppose that everything I'd experienced in the past week and a half finally caught up with me. Have you ever been in a plane, flying over the ocean, and suddenly realized I'm in a little metal box flying through the air? It was a moment like that, when you feel small, insignificant, alone... a helpless speck on the cosmic landscape. Here I was, in such an unlikely situation that just had to be impossible... impossible that any of this could even exist, and for that reason, extremely likely to break apart... to explode cataclysmically. It was as though I saw myself from above, far above, so high and distant that I was barely a black dot on an infinitesimally tiny white bed. The Universe is not thinking about me, I told myself. A sinkhole could swallow me up; a landslide, an avalanche, an earthquake could bury me alive and Nature would never know that I was under all that mess.
I don't know how long I lay there, paralyzed with fear, until at last the coffee worked its way through my system and I had to go the bathroom. I sat on the toilet, nearly shaking from adrenaline and fear. After I washed my hands and face, I stared at myself in the mirror. "Myself," ha! I looked at Dexie's face. I looked into Dexie's eyes, deep into her eyes, but all I saw was eyes. I didn't see a window to someone inside me. I didn't see my soul, or Dexie's soul, or anyone else's soul for that matter.
What if I'd imagined everything? I mean, really. The whole thing was crazy from beginning to end.
Let's recap: some aliens chased my car, and Dexie, frightened, crashed into a tree. She died, and I was so banged up that they put my soul or whatever is me into her body. Here I was, now, eighteen years old, female, with curly red hair, spying on a cult in Spokane.
Did any of that make sense?
What if I was hallucinating? What if all of this was happening in my imagination? What if I was really Fred, and not Dexie at all? That could happen, and it was a lot more likely than an alien intervention. What if I was still Fred, old Fred, and when I looked in the mirror I really saw Fred, but because of a psychotic break I believed I saw Dexie?
Okay... if that were so, then everyone else would see me as an old man who was acting like a young girl.
Then I thought about Arrow... about the sex we'd had. I suppose I could have hallucinated that as well.
And the ring? I could have bought that myself and imagined he'd given it to me.
Then again, the ring might not be real after all. It could just be part of my hallucination.
So could the hotel room, the diner... all of it. Not real.
Right now, in fact, I could be lying in a bed in a psych ward somewhere, sedated out of my head and living this implausible dream.
How could I know?
I thought about it. I tried to think of a way to verify. I could call someone: I could call Kristy or Arrow. I could even ask Clara, or the clerk at the front desk how I looked to them.
But then... if I was nuts, I would hear them say what I wanted to hear, not what they actually, truly said.
I took a towel from the rack, wrapped it around me, and sat down on the bathroom floor.
I didn't sit there long. I began to notice that the room wasn't cleaned all that well. There was dirt and hair in every corner, and behind the toilet was all sorts of debris.
If I was crazy, I wasn't crazy enough to imagine all that dust, hair, and disgusting junk away, so I got up, changed into my pajamas, and gave my clothes a good shaking out. Then I crawled into bed and turned on the TV.
There wasn't much on, so I settled for Dude, Where's My Car? which somehow seemed quite appropriate, given my situation. Except that in the movie the aliens returned and fixed everything. In real life, of course, the aliens don't come back. You have to fix it all yourself.
I don't know what time I finally became exhausted enough to fall asleep, but I know what time I woke up: 5:05 AM. There was some kind of noise filtering from the real world into my dream. Groggy and disoriented, I turned to the obvious source: the old-style radio/alarm clock. I've been tripped up in this way many times when I used to travel for work: you have to remember to make sure the alarm is OFF before you go to bed, and I hadn't done that.
I tapped the top, trying to find the SNOOZE button. The angry red numbers stared at me: 5:05 AM. That how's I knew what time it was.
But what on earth was the radio playing? It sounded like people arguing.
Slowly the gears in my brain got moving, and slowly I surfaced into something resembling waking consciousness. As I came to myself, I realized that it wasn't the radio at all: there were two real, live people arguing in the street.
Groaning softly, I did a slow roll out of the bed. "Oh, jeez, I feel like an old man," I complained to myself, and rested my head against the cool wall as I gazed at the street below. I wasn't surprised by what I saw.
The Happy Place cook, Andy, had finally had enough. He hadn't blown a blood vessel, but he'd blown his top. He was shouting a list of grievances at Clara, the Happy Place waitress. She was trying — just as she had tried last night — to calm him down. "At least stop yelling," she told him, "You don't need to yell. I can hear you."
When she said that, it was like she'd thrown gasoline on a fire. Andy erupted into paroxysms of fury. He did stop yelling, though. Now, instead, he was full-on screaming.
My adrenals kicked in like a fire alarm. Before I even knew what I was doing, I pulled on my jeans and shirt, and shoved my feet into sneakers. I had to get down there. Andy had lost control, and I was afraid he was going to hit her, hurt her, and I couldn't let that happen.
Even if he didn't lay a hand on her, I couldn't let her stand there alone and take his abuse.
What a hero, huh? Maybe as Fred I could of stood a chance of stopping him. At least I'd be good at standing in the way.
But now... what could I do? Shout Hey, you! Stop that! and shake my finger at him? All I could really hope was that the presence of another person, an outsider, might bring him back to himself. Maybe if he saw a willing witness, it would keep him from doing anything seriously bad.
And sure, yeah, I'd jump on his back and pound him with my little fists, if it came to that. Whatever I could do, I would do.
As it turned out, though, there was no need for heroics. By the time I burst out of the hotel's front door, Andy was nowhere to be seen. Clara stood there, alone.
"Where did he go?" I asked.
"Gone," she said. Then, looking at my face, she said, "Oh, you're the girl from last night. Greek salad and onion rings."
"Yeah, that's me."
"Well," she said after a pause, "Looks like there won't be any diner today. Cook's gone."
"I figured." Then, I had to ask her: "What are you doing here?"
"Hmmph," she said, with a weary chuckle. "Jeff, the owner, is my boyfriend." Then, "Was my boyfriend. He never was much of a boyfriend, and he's not much of a manager, either."
"Let me guess," I said. "He leaves it all up to you."
"Right."
"He takes the profit, and you and Andy do all the work."
"Right."
"He was never going to hire another cook."
She shook her head No.
"Or another waitress."
She sighed. "He always has a reason, an explanation." She turned and looked through the window, inside. "Andy was right all along. Now he's had enough. I've had enough, too."
I stood there with her in silence, watching her look into the diner. I knew what she felt. I'd been there. I've been the burnt-out employee, although there was no way I could tell her that. I knew what she was looking at. She was looking through the diner's window into its soul. She was looking at her memories, the people, the feeling of being at a focal point of people's need: their need for food, their need for a place to be, their need for coffee and a smile.
"You know what I'm going to do?" she said. "I'm going to open this place up and make some coffee. Then I'm going to round up all the pies and muffins and breads and cakes and whatnot, and today, just today, it's all free." She laughed. "Then once it's gone, I'm going to lock the door and throw the key down that sewer grate over there and then..." here she paused and, smiling, savored an idea... "THEN I'm going to decide whether to tell Jeff or just move on and let him find out by himself."
I laughed. We smiled at each other for a moment, and then she sniffed. Oh, no — I knew that kind of warning sniff. I knew what was coming. She gave another, harder sniff, and then she gulped. Her face twisted up and big tears came rolling down her cheeks. She grabbed me and hugged me and held me.
How do I always end up here? I asked myself. I gave her a squeeze, and then just held her, keeping one arm around her and the other hand flat on her back. I didn't say anything (because talking was where I always went wrong). I just waited for her to stop sobbing. I could feel my shoulder getting soggy.
When she was through, she untangled herself from me, and embarrassed, she apologized.
"No need," I said. "It's fine."
"You know what?" she asked as she wiped her nose on a tiny scrappy ball of tissue.
"What?"
"I can't do that. I can't give it all away. That would be stealing."
"Okay," I said.
"I guess I should just go home, take a shower and have a nap, and then go talk to Jeff."
"That sounds like a good idea," I agreed.
Then she turned and looked again into the dark diner and sighed. "But then, I'd be letting everybody else down. All the people who really matter. They'll come down here and... and then... and then what will they do?"
I shrugged. "They'll find someplace else to go," I told her.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "There is no place else. At least, not in this neighborhood." And she sighed again, a deep, long sigh.
In my head I could hear Al Pacino's voice: Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in!
Still, I had to say it. There was no way that I couldn't step up. "Clara," I began... then my voice caught and I had to clear my throat. "Uh, Clara... I have an idea. Or an offer. Anyway, here it is..."
Chapter Fifteen
by Kaleigh Way
Clara didn't need to be asked twice. She looked me straight in the face for a moment, as if my resume and character references were written around my eyes. Then she said, "Okay, come on in."
"You ever been a short-order cook before, little lady?" she asked me.
"Yes," I said truthfully, and lying added, "My uncle owned a diner down in Red Bluff, California." There was no way I could tell her my real experience. "How many breakfasts do you serve, on average?"
"About 150," she replied.
"Really!" I exclaimed.
"Yep," she affirmed. "Most of that's take-out: coffees, muffins, breakfast sandwiches. The muffins and stuff get delivered, but you'll need to keep a row of the breakfast sandwiches going."
"Okay," I said, scanning the menu. "We'll have to— wait, let me have a look in the kitchen."
I ran in the back, found a hairnet, washed my hands, and took a quick inventory.
"Clara," I called, "We have to skip the oatmeal today. There's no time to cook it. We'll serve Cream of Wheat, and for a quarter extra they can have an egg blended in."
"Okay," she agreed as she bustled around, making coffee, getting ready.
"Hey," I called, more softly this time, "I won't let you down, Clara, don't worry. I've done this before."
"Hey yourself," she called back, without looking up. "For today, you just need to be better than nothing. I'm not thinking past the morning rush."
At first I felt a bit awkward. My reach wasn't as long as it used to be, and I wasn't as tall or strong as I used to be. Once I started moving, though, it all came back to me, and by the height of the morning rush, I was a breakfast-making machine. The pancakes were light and perfectly brown, the toast was golden and hot, the eggs were fluffy and not oily, the hashbrowns were crispy and full of flavor, and... the Cream of Wheat sold well enough, though the hard-core oatmeal crowd complained.
"That was the *only* complaint," Clara told me. "Tomorrow there's got to be oatmeal."
"Tomorrow?" I repeated. "Does that mean you want me to come back?"
"I want you to do lunch, if you're up for it," she said with a smile.
"Sure!" I said. "I love this kind of work."
"I can see that," she said. "You're very enthusiastic."
"I have to tell you, though, I can't promise to stay for long. I can help you out until you get a real cook hired..."
"That's fine," she said. "I'm not going to be here for long, either. Jeff's going to have to step up, because I'm going to be stepping off."
"Good for you," I told her.
"Here," she said, shoving a small pile of dollars into my hand. I looked down and saw several twenties. "That's yours."
"Oh," I said. "I didn't do this for money. I was just helping you out."
"Hey," she countered. "It's not *my* money! Do you get what I'm saying? You take it!"
"Oh, right. It's Jeff's money. I got it."
"Yeah, you got it and you keep it. You're not going to need a W-2, are you?"
"No," I said, smiling. "Cash is fine. Cash is king."
"Okay," she said. "Are you up for lunch? Do you know how to make soup?"
After looking over the supplies a second time, I decided to make minestrone. After chopping the vegies, I sauteed them. Next, I stirred in some white beans and chopped tomatoes. After that mixture had cooked for a bit, I added the pasta, stirred it around to get the pasta hot, and then covered it all with stock. Later, I added salt, pepper and a few other seasonings.
"Smells good!" Clara called. "Can I have a bowl?" I also gave a big bowl to the kid who came to wash dishes and pots. They both loved it.
"Clara," I said. "After lunch, after cleanup, I’m going to go. I’m not going to work all day."
"Neither am I, hon," she agreed. "I talked to Jeff. He’s coming and he’s bringing his mamma. They will cover the evening shift." She shook her head. "His mother is a trip and a half." She rolled her eyes for emphasis. "Anyway, Jeff wants to meet you. He’d like you to come by and have dinner with him here at about nine o'clock, if you can wait that long."
"Yeah, that’s fine," I said.
"Just don’t let him push you around," Clara admonished, and then the two of us worked out our game plan.
Lunch was busier than breakfast. Lots of take-out. Still, it wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before. Breakfast comes as a series of big waves, but lunch is an explosion, all at once. I’d asked Clara what the big sellers were, and got pretty well set up before anyone arrived.
I was amazed by how quickly the soup went, but I had to attribute that to the previous cook’s efforts.
Somewhere around 12:30, Desiree — one of the five women I’d seen my first night here — came to the window and asked for a big container of soup. I had a few ready, so I handed one out to her.
She looked at it as if I’d given her the wrong thing. She picked it up, tilted it, and looked at it sideways. Then she looked back at me with an expression like What’s going on? Is this a joke?
"Something wrong?" I asked. "Do you not like minestrone?"
Desiree shook her head. "It’s not blended," she complained.
"Blended?" I asked. "Blended with what?"
That confused her. I could see she didn’t know how to respond, but I had no idea what she wanted.
"Do you want some cream blended in?" I asked. "Or grated cheese?"
Her jaw dropped open. Her confusion deepened. "No," she said. "I just want it blended." She stressed the word, as if that would make its meaning clearer.
Clara noticed the discussion and came over to help. "She wants it blended," she explained. "You know, in the blender." She made a horizontal circular motion with her finger.
"Ohhh!" I cried, the light finally dawning. "You want it pureed!"
"Oh, pure—aid!" Desiree responded tartly, "Excuse me for not being all hoity-toity with my vocabulary. Unlike you, I didn’t go to high school at the Sorbonne."
"Come on," I said, "I’m sorry. It’s just that blended means something else."
"Mmm," she replied in a voice laden with sarcasm, "I’m so sure."
"Alright," I said, grabbing the soup. "One blended soup, coming right up."
"Excuse me, young lady," Desiree said with exaggerated politeness, "the correct term is pureed."
The three of us laughed, and the tension was broken.
Lunch went well. There were a few complaints, due mainly to people expecting Andy’s food and getting mine instead, but there was nothing serious. I sent the plates back with the adjustments they requested, and all was well. Once again, Clara gave me a handful of cash. I left with a takeout container and a cup of coffee. Back in my room I drank the coffee, which made me warm and sleepy, and then I slept deeply for a few hours.
When I woke, I suddenly remembered Arrow. I needed to check in with him, or he’d be heading out here, racing to my rescue. So I called and filled him in.
"Good work," he commented. "You’ve infiltrated their hangout."
"Yeah, I guess so," I agreed.
"Have you charged the GPS?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," I assured him. "All night long."
After I hung up, of course, I plugged in the charger and attached the GPS.
Then I sat down and attacked my meal of Greek salad and onion rings. It tasted pretty good.
It suddenly struck me, as I was wiping some oil off my fingers, that the fears of last night were gone. Utterly gone. From the moment I woke to Andy and Clara’s argument until now, I’d forgotten all about them. Maybe all the activity drove the crazies out. Maybe it was because I'd stepped up to help Clara. Thinking about other people is a good way to feel better. Then again, it could be something as simple as getting some sleep. I didn’t know what cured me, but I wasn't going to wrack my brain over it. It was enough to know that I wasn’t afraid or uncertain any more.
Well, maybe not any more. The feelings could easily come back, but at the moment I felt fine. I knew I was Dexie, or Fred-in-Dexie. I wasn’t hallucinating any of this.
I left the hotel and took a walk. I walked for an hour, around and around the blocks near the hotel and the Happy Place. It was a fairly industrial part of town. There weren’t many stores or people about. Still, it was good to move, to get out.
That evening, I watched TV, watched the diner, and was pretty thoroughly bored.
At nine I went down and met Jeff and his mother at the diner. It went exactly as Clara predicted: he tried to make me feel badly about not working the whole day. "You let me down," he said.
"Exactly how did I let you down?" I asked him. "By cooking breakfast and lunch? Is that how I let you down? If that’s what you mean, I won’t offend you by doing it tomorrow. I can stay away, if I’m not wanted."
We argued back and forth for twenty minutes. I’m sure he was surprised that such a young girl held her ground against him, but I had nothing at all to lose. He offered me an insulting low daily wage, since (as he said) I was "just starting out and learning the ropes."
I replied that I already had an agreement with Clara, and that if he didn’t like it, I could go.
In the end he gave in, and left it all up to Clara. He knew he was losing her, but he was obviously very lazy, so he was going to let things go until Clara left.
The next day, breakfast and lunch ran about the same as Monday, except that I had the oatmeal ready, and the soup was a country chicken stew.
Near the middle of lunch, Desiree came to the window for the usual container of soup. I had it ready prepared, and handed it up to her saying, "I blended it for you this time."
She responded, "Don’t make fun of me. I didn’t graduate high school. I do the best I can. I’m not stupid."
"I’m sorry," I told her, taken aback. "I wasn’t trying to make fun."
"I don’t use fancy words. I don’t talk nice, the way you do. I’ve had to come up the hard way."
"I’m sorry, Desiree. I was just trying to be friendly."
"Hmmph," she grunted, sounding dubious. Her eye caught a fat drip of soup, rolling slowly down the outside of the container. Quickly, I grabbed the plastic bin and wiped it clean.
"Didn’t you take the soup yesterday?" I asked, in an effort to change the subject.
"What do you know about it?" she shot back.
"Sorry, I overheard you and the other women talking, the first night I was here."
"Well, if you must know," she told me, huffing a little, "we have a friend who is... indisposed." She looked at me, as if to see whether she’d used the right word. I nodded, and she went on. "All she can eat is soup. We used to take turns bringing it to her, but lately I decided I’d make it my job."
I was about to compliment her and say That’s awfully nice of you, but before I got the words out, she electrified me by saying, "Anyway... Lizzie is a good friend of mine, so I like to help her out."
"Lizzie?" I repeated. "Do you mean Lizzie Martineau?"
Desiree froze. "How do you know her name?"
In answer, I pulled off my hairnet and yanked the hair band out that held my hair in place. Lane had told me that my hair was just like Lizzie’s, and as my reddish gold curls fell around my face, I could see from Desiree’s expression that it was true. My hair was my ID, my passport in.
"She’s my mother," I told her. "I’ve come to find her."
Chapter Sixteen
by Kaleigh Way
Lizzie, as it turned out, had been sick this entire time; she'd been hit and laid low by the flu. And where was she? Of all places, she'd been staying in a room in the same hotel as me. "She's in quarantine," Desiree explained. As it turned out, this wasn't quite the truth — or at least it wasn't the right use of the word.
The coincidence didn't surprise me. It irritated me quite a bit, but it puzzled me even more: why was a sick woman staying in a hotel by herself?
Desiree, after conferring with the other women, left with the container of soup, and returned soon after with a card key and Lizzie's room number. Her room was on the eighth floor.
The women had to get back to work — and so did I — but they stopped by the order window to have a good look at my face and to "see the hair."
"Oh, she's Lizzie's, all right," they agreed. "The face, not so much, but that's Lizzie's hair!"
One of them, a tall blonde named Gloria, said, "If you've got her uncontrollable red hair, I'm sure you've got her wild, unpredictable character as well! We have to be careful, girls: there's two kegs of dynamite in town!"
The women made me promise to meet them for dinner at the diner that night.
Arrow was over the moon when I called. "You've hit the mother lode!" he exclaimed. "Good work! Just be careful, now. Follow the protocols: keep the GPS charged, make sure you check in every day."
"I will," I promised.
"Don't let your guard down. That's the main thing," he cautioned. "When you're relaxed and happy — that's when they'll strike."
I scoffed in disgust as I hung up the phone. This is not my story! I exclaimed to myself. I don't want to do any of this!
What I really needed and wanted was a good hot shower and a few hours' sleep, but instead I took the elevator up to eight and knocked on Lizzie's door. I heard a soft, "Can you come in?"
The room was stuffy and the air was stale. The smell of old soup wasn't overpowering, but it was definitely strong. The shades were drawn, and the only light came from the lamps in the bathroom. The bed was so messy, it looked like a shipwreck, and Lizzie, who lay on her back in the midst of the wreckage, was not much better herself. She was pale, perspiring, breathing through her mouth, and looked utterly exhausted. Her hair, golden-red curls just like mine, spilled in twists and tangles all over her pillow. I understood instantly what Lane had seen in her and found unable to resist. Even there — lying ill in this low-end hotel room, with its cheap furniture and hard old carpeting, littered with empty food containers, napkins, and other debris — Lizzie, with her long red coils of hair, her full lips and round breasts, made the scene worthy of the cover of a romance novel.
I'm kicking myself in advance for the sexist thing I'm about to say, but her weakness and pallor made her look vulnerable, fragile, and quintessentially feminine.
When I first entered the room, her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She was certainly sick, weak, and pale, but when her gaze came down and lighted on me, her eyes brightened, and she called out, "Is that you, Ur-Dexina?"
"Oh, God!" I exclaimed, almost without thinking. "Call me Dexie!"
She frowned, then smiled, and said, "Okay, Dexie. Hello, Dexie."
"Hello, Mom," I replied, and her eyes welled up with tears. Oh, crap, I swore silently to myself. Do we have to do the crying thing now? But thankfully, Lizzie took a breath, wiped her tears, and composed herself.
I didn't run over and hug her, and she didn't seem to invite or expect it.
"Sorry for the mess," she said, "But I've been sick. Actually, I just woke up before you came. My fever finally broke. That's why I'm soaked. The bed, too! I'm sorry that the first time you see me, I'm looking like this, but oh God, I'm so glad I'm not sick anymore! I'm finally through."
"That's great," I said. "You know what? Why don't you take a nice bath while I clean up in here and air the room out a little bit?"
"Would you do that?" she cried. "Oh, a bath would be so lovely!"
First I turned on the heat lamp in the bathroom, and ran the water in the tub to get it hot. As warm as it was outside, I didn't want her to catch a chill. Once the room began to feel like a sauna, and the water was running hot, I filled the tub and swooshed in some bubble bath. Lizzie made her way unassisted from the bed to the bathroom, but she took my arm in a firm grip as she stepped into the bath. "My head is still pretty light," she explained. As I looked down at her naked body, Arrow's words echoed in my head You'll see what you'll look like when you're older. Lizzie was at least in her late thirties, and she looked pretty damn good — even for woman who'd been sick. Lizzie certainly was "curvy" as Lane said — curvier than me — and her face was much prettier than Dexie's — I mean, prettier than mine. Still, it looked like I'd gotten good genes, at least from her side.
Once she was comfortable in the tub, I opened up the room, pulling aside the curtains, opening the windows — and the door, too, until it blew shut with a bang!. I gathered up the trash — all the old food containers, paper napkins, plastic forks, newspapers, and miscellaneous other crap. Carrying two bulging bags of garbage, I went out to the hall and found the housekeeping closet. After dumping the trash bags there (sorry, cleaning person!), I grabbed fresh pillows, bed clothes, and blankets. Back in the room, I stripped Lizzie's bed of everything, and shoved it all into a laundry bag. Then I flipped the mattress and made it up, clean, fresh, and new.
"Can I come out yet?" Lizzie called. "It's lovely in here, but I'm turning into a prune!"
"Just a little longer," I called back. "Did you wash your hair?"
"And this hot water is making me weak," she continued. I wasn't sure whether she'd heard my question until she added, "I'm washing my hair now, but then I've got to rinse off and come out."
I lugged the dirty laundry back to the housekeeping closet and shoved it in there. I felt badly about leaving work for someone else, but at least they wouldn't have as hard a time cleaning Lizzie's room.
There was nothing left to clean or straighten, so I closed the windows and moved one of the chairs into the sun. Lizzie came out, bundled in her bathrobe. I settled her in the chair and covered her with a blanket. She smiled, beaming with happiness.
"This is like a dream," she said, closing her eyes and letting her body drink up the sun.
"You look exhausted," I observed.
"Yes," she agreed, smiling, "but I'm not sick any more. I'm finally over that awful flu. It just wouldn't let go."
"I found your phone," I said. "The battery's dead, but I couldn't find the charger."
"Oh, yes. There was such a hurry to get here that I forgot, and left the charger at home."
"Where's home? Do you mean the Ark?"
Her eyes opened in amazement. She looked at me with mildly amused and puzzled expression. "The Ark?" she repeated. "How could you ever hear about..." then she realized "...oh, Lane." She laughed a throaty chuckle. "Honey, that place is long gone." She shook her head, smiling. "I can't imagine what Lane told you about it." She covered her mouth with her hand, laughing a little.
"You can't imagine?" I retorted, my anger suddenly catching fire. "Well, I'll tell you: he told me that you and the other women there were sleeping with men to lure them into your cult!"
I don't know whether you've ever had the experience of watching words come out of your mouth. Part of you is talking and another part of you is watching, and the part that's watching is thinking, Why on earth did I say that? I didn't mean to say that. I didn't want to say that. And I didn't. At least, not yet. Not at that moment.
So, why did I say it? Mainly because I was tired. I was so damn tired. Tired and irritated. Physically, I was tired from having worked eight hours in a hot, fast-moving kitchen. Mentally, psychologically, emotionally, I was tired of this whole Spokane experience. I wasn't Dexie, at least not the old Dexie. Lizzie wasn't really my mother, so I didn't need to be here. I didn't need to resolve any issues, or discover who I am, or any of the things that I suppose would torture someone who really had been born into such a life.
Besides that, I was angry about the way poor Dexie had grown up. I'd always been angry about that, and now I knew a hell of a lot more crap about it than I ever knew before.
This woman, for all her cuteness and light, had abandoned her own child — her own baby — to a strange couple. She barely knew Lane; she didn't know Lane's wife at all. She just dropped little Dexie off, like an inconvenient package; something delivered to the wrong address. Then she ran off, to indulge her "wild, ungovernable nature" and take her curves and crazy red curls back to Spokane... back to Spokane to do what? What the hell was she doing that justified throwing away her baby?
Even more than all that, I was tired of feeling like an asshole for not wanting to do the things that Dexie would have done. The things that Dexie would have been happy to have done. I resented them, and I resented feeling guilty about resenting them. Somehow I had to do all this for Dexie, even if Dexie was dead. The poor girl. Remembering her, of course, made me feel even worse. She was dead. She'd been cheated out of her life, and so much of it was my fault, purely my fault, really my fault, and to stand here, in her body, living the life that she actually and truly wanted to live — I felt like a thief and a fraud. Dexie would have wanted to be exactly here, exactly now. She would have been glad to see this woman who looked so much like her, who was her source of life.
I shook myself out of my reverie. Lizzie was inarticulate. She was shocked. Her head was shaking, her hands were moving, and she was very agitated and upset. Her face had gone deathly pale. She looked as though I'd punched her in the gut. She was actually trembling. God dammit! I cursed myself. Talk about bad timing! The woman is still recovering from being sick!
Feeling even more like a complete and utter heel, I knelt next to her chair, at her feet, and put my hands lightly on her arms. "I'm sorry," I told her. "I'm sorry... Mom. I shouldn't have said that."
At my touch, and at my repeated "sorries" she calmed down. Then she gave me one of those tender looks that only a mother can give to a child, a look filled with guilt-making forgiveness, and she ran her hand lightly over my hair.
"It's all right," she said. "It's just that I'm so... weak. Can you help me back to bed?"
She leaned heavily on my arm as I helped her across the room, each step driving me deeper into regret about the way I'd talked to her. After I'd tucked her into bed, she asked for another blanket, as warm as it was.
"Maybe I'd better rest," she said. "Can you come back later? I feel like eating some real food tonight. Could you bring me the meatloaf plate from the diner?"
"Uh... yes, of course," I agreed. "Are you sure that's not too heavy for your first solid meal?"
"Yes, I'm sure," she said, smiling weakly at me. "Make sure the door is closed tight when you go."
For a few moments I stood there, uncertain. Clearly she'd just asked me to leave, and so I'd go, but... something wasn't quite right. I understood that she was very sick, but I began to feel that I was being played somehow. Could all that weakness and trembling have been an act? I didn't think so... and yet.
There was nothing else to do but say a stumbling, "Okay, Mom." Then I left.
Home for me, at the moment, was only six floors down, and I was tired. I needed a shower and a bed, but the experience with Lizzie left me in a strange state. I wanted to walk, to digest it, to figure out exactly what happened up there. I could call Arrow and talk about it, but Arrow wasn't one for ruminating and considering. He would immediately find an explanation based, of course, on his strange ideas about women, and once he expressed himself, he'd expect me to go along.
That wasn't going to work for me. This was one of those things that needed to be turned over and examined from every side, like a diamond.
I took the stairs down, but after the first few steps my tiredness hit me like a wall. I tried to open the door to the seventh floor, but it didn't open from the stairwell. All the other doors, all the way down to the first-floor lobby were locked in the same way. You could get into the stairway from any floor, but the only way out was at the bottom. So I walked those eight flights down, took the elevator back up to the second floor, and collapsed on my bed with all my clothes on.
I woke after an hour, feeling groggy, funky, and dirty, so I got up, showered, brushed my teeth, and fell back into bed. Before I sank into sleep again, I set the alarm for 6:30, then double- and triple-checking to make sure it was set for PM and not AM. I didn't miss my appointment with the women at the Happy Place.
When I entered the diner, the five women waved me over to their table. They had the tendency to all speak at once, which meant that I missed things. They didn't seem to mind talking over each other, but it was very confusing for me. As far as names went, I already knew Desiree. Gloria was the tall blonde; Jean was the shorter blonde. The other two were Nancy and Iris, but I was never sure which was which.
First of all, they wanted to have a good long look at me. They touched my hair, lifted it, felt it. One of them said, "Lizzie doesn't like to brush her hair, either." They had me stand, and turn. They peered into my face as if I were a statue. It was weird, yes, but I didn't mind. I understood that they were looking for traces of Lizzie in me, hunting for all the similarities. They went so far as to hold up menus in front of my face, so they could isolate my mouth or nose or eyes, and look at the one feature without seeing the rest.
"You've got Lizzie's eyes and nose, but the rest of your face must be Lane's," was the general conclusion.
"I don't remember what he looked like," another said. "Do you have a picture of your daddy, hun?"
"No," I said. "I've never met my father."
"You never met your father? Didn't he raise you?"
"Lane raised me," I said, "but he isn't my father."
"Oh!" that stopped them cold, and for ten seconds there was silence. The waitress was passing, so I ordered the meatloaf plate while they digested what I'd said. I figured that if it was the first thing Lizzie asked for after her illness, it had to be good.
After the waitress left, Jean opened her mouth and cautiously, as if testing the water with one toe, she asked, "Then who is your daddy?"
Watching their faces carefully, I said, "I think it's Benevolence."
They didn't react. No, actually, they kept themselves from reacting. I felt as though I'd tossed a depth charge into the sea, and it was still sinking into the depths. It hadn't yet exploded.
"How do you figure that?" Desiree asked. She tried to sound nonchalant, but I could see she was irked by my using that name.
I hung fire for a moment, then told an easy lie. "A DNA test showed that I'm not Lane's child." That was a lot easier to explain than inheritance of blood-types.
"You may not be Lane's daughter, but that doesn't prove you're any child of Ben's," Gloria countered. "You don't have Ben's DNA to test, do you? I mean... you've never met him, have you."
Neither of her challenges were questions, so she didn't bother waiting for my answer. "As a matter of fact, you don't look anything like Ben. So it's laughable for you to pretend to be his daughter." The other women scrutinized me again, and it was easy to see: they didn't find any resemblance, either.
I burned a little at Gloria's response. Obviously, I wasn't "pretending" to be Benevolence's child — it was only a guess on my part. However, there was nothing to be gained from arguing the point, so I let it go. What was more important was that my depth charge turned out to be a dud, so I dropped another. "Then my father must have been one of the other men she slept with."
Gloria's eyes narrowed. "What other men are you talking about? Your mother is no angel, but she doesn't sleep around."
"Oh no?" I countered. My anger was starting to rise again. I'm not a mean-spirited person, but I wasn't going to pussyfoot around. Now that I'd met Lizzie, I was beginning to calculate how soon I could cut the cord. I couldn't wait to leave Spokane and everyone in it. So I told them, "I'm talking about the men that you were trying to pull into your cult."
Oddly, that didn't seem to connect. Gloria continued to look disgusted, but the others were genuinely puzzled. It took a few moments for Jean to suddenly get it. "Ohhh!" she said softly. "She's talking about back when we had the Ark... and the free-love days and—"
"Yeah, yeah, we got it," Gloria cut in. Her movements were brusk. She was angry now, and didn't try to hide it. "Look," she said to me, "I don't know what you've heard, or think you've heard—"
I interrupted. "I heard that you women were sleeping with men to try to lure them into your cult."
"Cult?" she echoed. "You've got quite a mouth on you, girl. You've been throwing around accusations and misinformation from the moment you walked in. You ought to check your facts before you start defaming good and decent people. We are not a cult."
Gloria was burning mad, but her anger didn't scare me. She could fume and fire all she liked, but it didn't bother me at all. I looked her in the eyes and asked, "So, nothing of what I said is true?"
The tall blonde sat up and squinted her eyes at me. She was clearly rearing back, getting ready to deliver a fire-breathing, earth-scorching reply, but Jean was quick to put a lid on it. She placed her hand on Gloria's and said quietly, "Let me handle this, okay?" Gloria's lips tightened, and her gaze narrowed even further. It was one of those if looks could kill moments, but of course, looks can't kill. Jean quietly prompted, "Gloria?"
At that, Gloria took a deep breath and let it go. She nodded to Jean, but she kept her burning eyes on my face. Jean turned to look at me. She smiled.
"I'll tell you what you want to know," she said, "but only if you're willing to listen." I nodded, so she continued. "Our group... whatever you want to call it, however you want to categorize it... has been active for a good long while — it started long before any of us were born. We — the five of us and Lizzie — we all joined around the same time. It was eighteen, nineteen—" she paused, caught by a realization "—oh, my God, it was nearly twenty years ago! Well!
"Anyway, at the time, we were about your age. Can you imagine that? But we didn't have the advantages that you have. Some of us didn't have a good home life. Some of us never finished school. Some did, some didn't, but whatever our history, we didn't know everything about everything, the way you seem to think you do." She delivered that line with a smile, and she sounded kind. In any case, I wasn't offended. Technically speaking, I was more than twenty years older than anyone at the table, and though I don't know everything about everything, I do know a lot more than they'd expect.
Jean took her hand off Gloria's and glanced around the table. Our food arrived, and once we'd all eaten enough to take the edge off, Jean picked up the story again.
"There was a very short period of time... a year or so before you were born... and as I said, we were all about your age. And, as I said, we didn't know everything. We hadn't seen much of the world or done much in it. But we were adventurous, we were curious, and we had each other. Also at that time, we were worried about the state of the world. It might sound funny now, because back then most people were doing pretty well. But we thought that everything we knew could easily unravel, and we wanted to be ready."
"What do you mean unravel?" I asked.
"Everything. The global economy for one. It's all based on promises and loans. It's a giantic Ponzi scheme, and if one country decides to step out, the whole thing will fall apart. Another thing we worried about was war. Nuclear weapons. Disorder. Chaos. And I guess last of all, we worried about natural disasters."
"Natural disasters happen all the time," I objected. "You can't live in fear of that."
The women glanced at each other, looking somewhat embarrassed.
"Okay," Jean admitted. "This may sound silly, but we thought California was going to drop off into the ocean."
I didn't react. It wasn't the first time I'd heard that, even though I didn't believe it.
Jean's cheeks reddened slightly as she spoke. "Back in the 1930s, a psychic named Edgar Cayce predicted that California would fall into the sea. We had reasons to believe that it was going to happen around the year 2000, and we wanted to be ready."
"All you had to do was stay away from Califorian," I pointed out.
"If California disappeared, it would have a devastating effect on the economy, to say nothing of the incredible number of people who would die. We thought that disorder and confusion could trigger the breakdown of society."
Gloria bristled. "All of that can still happen," she declared.
"In any case," Jean continued, with a little dismissive hand-wave, "Our little group bought a farm. We thought we could live off the land, get off the grid. Let the rest of the world fall apart. We could disappear and be self-sustaining. That was the Ark, which Lane must have told you about. It was an experiment, and one that didn't last very long."
"We could have tried harder and smarter," Gloria declared.
"None of us knew anything about farming," Desiree put in.
"And — most important of all — we didn't have the money to keep it going," Jean told me. "When we couldn't pay the property taxes, we had to leave. That was all it took to sink our little Ark."
"That," Desiree added, "and the fact that we had no idea how to do anything at all."
"Anyway, while we were out there, out in the middle of nowhere, we didn't have a whole lot to do. We had no TV, no radio, no town nearby, nothing. Nothing to do." She fell quiet, so Desiree picked up the story.
"We decided to try free love. No set partners, no rules about sex. Anybody could sleep with anybody. It was an experiment. It was fun for a little while..."
"And then Benevolence decided to send you out into the city to troll for men?" I asked.
"No," Gloria retorted. "That was somebody else's idea. In fact, Ben didn't like the idea at all, but he let us try it."
Desiree, in a much quieter voice, explained, "We had a shortage of men out there. It really wasn't working out."
Gloria's words repeated in my brain: somebody else's idea. Was there another puppet master? Someone behind Benevolence? It was a question worth asking.
"Wait a minute," I told them. "You said it was someone else's idea? I thought Benevolence was your leader."
"He is," Jean acknowledged.
"I told you, girl," Gloria said scornfully. "We're not a cult. Ben's our leader, but that doesn't stop anybody from having their own stupid ideas and running off on their own account."
"So, whose idea was it?" I asked.
Gloria gave out a scoffing laugh. "Take a wild guess," she challenged, smiling.
I opened my hands, shrugging. How could I possibly know?
Desiree came to my rescue. "It was Lizzie's idea," she confessed.
Lizzie didn't have any fight in her, and she looked miserable. She must have beaten herself up
over this every day since she drove away from the Lanes' house with empty arms.
I wanted to be the avenging angel. Instead, I felt like a ruthless heel.
"No offense, but no matter what you say, you're in a cult," I told Jane as we waited to cross the street to the hotel. As if a dam had suddenly opened its gates, a flood of cars blocked our way, keeping us on the diner side of the road.
"A cult?" Jean echoed. "Maybe," she admitted with a shrug, "but are we a good cult or a bad cult?"
I scoffed and asked her, "Is there such a thing as a good cult?"
Jean didn't answer. She just looked at me, at my face. It was the sort of looking you do when you're not sure you recognize someone, and it made me uneasy. The stream of cars suddenly stopped, and the street was clear. I hurried to cross, but Jean put her hand gently on my arm. "Wait," she said. "I didn't come out here to talk about that. I didn't want to talk about that at all. The thing is, I'm pretty sure I know who your father is... or was.
"After you reminded me of... well... what we were doing around the time you were conceived, I thought about the men who were around and in our group at the time. There really weren't that many. If you take your face and subtract all that's Lizzie, what's left looks like Sam. Sam McCloud."
"Nice try," I said, laughing.
"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled and a little offended.
"Sam McCloud is the name of a TV character. Dennis Weaver played him back in the seventies."
"It was Sam's name, too," she assured me, sounding a little hurt.
Oh, hell, I told myself. She's serious. She's talking about a real person that she knew. Now am I going to have to chase down this guy, as well? I thought that I was through. Out loud I gave a big heavy sigh and said, "I get the impression that he's not a part of your group any more."
"No," she said. "He's dead."
"Ah. Sorry."
She made a sympathetic face, the way one does at a funeral. "It was a long time ago... I guess you would have been four or five when it happened. He was on a long drive with—" she hesitated.
"What?"
"He was driving Ben back from Georgia—"
"From Georgia!? Why didn't they fly?"
"Ben doesn't fly," Jean replied in a quiet voice. "Anyway, it was night. Sam stopped to help a stranded woman change her tire, and he was hit by another driver."
"Oh, my God!"
"The guy didn't even stop. He was drunk and speeding. The police picked him up later, but Sam died there on the road." Jean's eyes teared up. "I can't tell you where he was from or whether he has any family, because we didn't have any names or numbers to call..." she sniffed and pulled out a tissue. "Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is, that judging from appearances, he was your father, and I wanted you to know that he was a good and beautiful man."
In spite of myself, I had to sniff back some tears in my own eyes. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and croaked out a "Thank you." She gave me a teary smile in return.
"Now you better go," she said, with a little laugh. "Get that food up to your mother before it gets cold!"
"Sam McCloud," I said to myself as the elevator doors closed. "Was that even your real name?"
Lizzie was asleep when I entered her room, but she roused herself. "I'm starving," she said, and wouldn't even wait for me to microwave the food. The way she tucked into the food, I could see she was famished, and she didn't speak at all until she'd eaten every bite, and dredged up the remnants with a bit of bread. I made her a cup of tea, which she gulped down, as hot as it was.
"Sorry to make a pig of myself," she apologized, "but it's the first real food I've eaten."
"It's okay," I said. "I'll bring you a big breakfast once the morning rush is over."
"Will you? That's so sweet!"
She gave me a big hug and kissed me on my cheek. "I need to kick you out," she said, bleary eyed. "I desperately need to sleep. Can you come when you get off from work tomorrow?"
When I promised I would, she blew me a kiss, then gathered her bedclothes over herself and turned to face the wall. I turned out the light and softly closed the door.
In the elevator down, I caught myself smiling. I was beginning to feel genuine affection for Lizzie. Certainly she, like Lane, was a mixed bag of good and bad, but I could see so much of Dexie in her. I'd watched Dexie grow up, and it was odd to see some of her same gestures and facial expressions in Lizzie, a woman she'd never known. The fact that she looked so much like Dexie, albeit a prettier, grown-up version, gave me a sense of familiarity.
When I got to my room, I called Arrow to bring him up to date.
"That's great," he said. "However, I've got to say that I'm disappointed that you aren't the child of Benevolence. That would have been a great thread to unravel. It could have given you some great leverage over the guy."
"I'm relieved," I said. "And I don't want leverage. Now I don't have any reason to go near the guy — and thank God I don't!"
"True," Arrow admitted. "You avoid a big potential danger there."
"And you know what?" I confessed, "I'm starting to feel some genuine affection for Lizzie."
"She is your mother," Arrow said. "It's a biological sense kicking in; it's a real connection."
"Whatever," I laughed.
"But hey— remember: "Don't lower your guard. The cult is still in the picture, and you don't know what they plan for you... quite apart from anything Lizzie wants or knows. Be careful! When you're relaxed and happy — that's when they'll strike."
The next morning, after the morning crowd had thinned, I filled two take-out containers with pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. I loaded a little brown bag with tiny containers of salt, pepper, maple syrup, jelly, napkins, a real knife and fork, and a hot, toasted blueberry muffin. I hurried across the street carrying them and a huge, 24-ounce styrofoam cup full of coffee.
The joyful look on Lizzie's face was worth the trouble — not that it was very much trouble. She sat at the table, and opening one container after another, had the radiance of child at Christmas.
"I'm really getting suckered in," I told myself as I rode the elevator back down.
After work was finished, I packed two lunches: a steak salad and a chicken salad, along with some sides and bread. I'd let Lizzie choose which salad she preferred. Funny, I told myself as I rode the elevator up, yesterday I couldn't wait to get out of here. Now, I'm in no hurry at all. My situation wasn't bad, actually. I had a job and making pretty good money for a teenager, although at some point I'd have to quit getting paid under the table and get put on the books. If I decided to stay, I'd have to find a room to rent somewhere. Then, remembering, I touched my engagement ring, hidden in my hip pocket. Somehow it called to me, reminding me of Arrow and his stupid marriage proposal.
That was a definite no, in any case, but I would have to bring his car back to him.
If I decided to stay.
As I stepped out of the elevator, I balanced our lunch containers in one hand and extracted Lizzie's room key from my back pocket. Before I unlocked her door, though, I stopped: there were two voices inside. One of them was a man's voice. Could it be Benevolence?
I debated for a moment: I could go away and come back later. I could wait in the hall or in the stairwell, and watch for him to leave. I really didn't want to meet the man, and now that I knew he wasn't my father, I had no reason, and absolutely no desire, to see him at all.
Then I considered: he might have come to meet me, which meant he'd wait. Besides, what harm could he do me? So I gave a knock, unlocked the door, and went in.
It was Benevolence. There was no mistaking it. He had to be Benevolence.
How did I know who he was? It was all in Lizzie's attitude toward him.
He was tall, probably six-four. Thin, bony, and bald. He didn't move much, and he had an expression on his face as though he was listening to something you couldn't hear. His hands were enormous; his fingers were thin, spread wide, and hanging down. They looked like nothing so much as two, large, skeletal spiders. His eyebrows were light brown and bushy: they needed trimming. He wore a nice brown suit that hung as loose as scarecrow's, as if he had no flesh on his bones. Later, when he stood, I saw he had a high, round pot belly, like a fledgling beach ball, but it wasn't apparent when he sat, as he did now, near Lizzie's bed, holding her hands in his.
I don't know whether the word creepy has occurred to you yet, so I'll just say it: The man was undeniably creepy. Something about his skin looked not-quite-sallow but somehow unhealthy, and I didn't want to be anywhere near him.
Lizzie glanced at me, smiled and nodded when I entered, but her adoring gaze immediately returned to Benevolence's face. He turned toward me for a moment, then back to Lizzie, without acknowledging me at all.
"Okay, then," he said to her. "Two more days. Three at the most, and then you can go back to the house."
"Thank you," she replied, and bowed her head in a slight, quick dip.
Benevolence gave her hands a squeeze, then he stood and turned to me. I had to tilt my head back to look into his face. "So you're Benevolence," I said.
He gave a kind of sideways nod. "Most people call me Ben," he replied, and gave what I'm sure he thought was a winning smile. "And you're Dexie. How you've grown."
"Yes," I said, and rather absurdly added, "How have I." I know it's stupid. I put it down to teen hormones.
"I see a lot of Lizzie in you," he observed, "and that's a good thing. I see something else, as well: you're an old soul."
If you only knew, I said internally. Out loud I said, "Do you see any of Sam McCloud in me?"
That took him by surprise, and Lizzie sat up straighter in bed. Was she surprised, too?
Benevolence let out a long breath. "Sam," he said quietly, remembering the man. He put his hand to his chin for a moment, then opened that hand to gesture I don't know. "I don't want to look for Sam in you," he said. "If he is your father, know that he was a good man."
"Can I ask you one thing?" I said. "Why is my mother in this hotel room?"
Benevolence glanced back at Lizzie, who for some reason looked alarmed. He gave her a look, and she nodded. Then he left without another word.
I waited until I heard the elevator close, then said, "Oh, yes, and goodbye to you, too."
Lizzie fussed and fidgeted in her bed. "Dexie, Dexie, Dexie! Ben doesn't like being asked questions."
"I'm sorry," I said in a sarcastic tone. "I didn't mean to make him cry."
Her jaw fell open in surprise. "Ben is very special person," she explained. "He is truly an extraordinary man."
I slowly shook my head. I liked Lizzie, I felt genuine affection for her, and didn't want to hurt her feelings. Still, it seemed like a good time to draw a line that needed drawing: I wanted nothing to do with her cult, and even more than that, I wanted nothing to do with Benevolence. In the best of all worlds, I'd never meet or even see him again.
I mean, really: If I had to, if I wanted to, I could leave right now. I'd done all I was obliged to do, hadn't I? I met my mother, I found out that my father is dead, and I verified that Benevolence's little group was a bona-fide cult. That was my to-do list, done. No one could fault me for not finding my birth parents. I'd finished everything that Dexie wanted to do, and now the future was mine.
Honestly, I could go either way at this point: stay or go. If I had to leave, now was a good time to cut the cord.
So I told Lizzie, plainly but not unkindly, "Ben may be special to you, but he's nothing at all to me."
"In time you'll see his value, and understand his mission," Lizzie assured me.
"No, I won't," I assured her.
"You have to understand that our group, our work with Ben, is very important. At least you can see that it's the most important thing in my life."
"More important than your daughter?"
She flushed. "Yes, I'm sorry, but our work is more important than you. Please don't force me choose."
"I don't have to force you," I countered. "You already made your choice: long ago, when you left me on the Lanes' doorstep. And the man wasn't even my father! He had every right to give me up himself!"
"That wasn't—" she began, then stopped and sighed. "It's complicated," she said. "We had our work here..."
"Oh, yes, I know. Non-stop sex out at the farm! Climbing from one bed to another, to keep from being bored!"
Lizzie didn't reply at first. "I guess I deserve that," she admitted. "But it wasn't as sordid as you make it sound. We were working on ourselves."
"And having a baby around got in the way?"
"Frankly, yes."
"Was I the only baby who was given up? Was I your only child?"
"Yes, you are my only child, and no, you aren't the only child who was given up." Lizzie's voice was quiet now, and she was looking down. "Desiree gave up her little girl, and so did a few other women who are no longer with us. Gloria had a daughter in her early teens."
"What happened to her?" I asked.
"She went to stay with her father."
Lizzie continued to look at the floor. She didn't have any fight in her, and she looked miserable. I was beginning to feel like a bully, and I didn't like it. Of course, what she did was stupid and selfish, but she was just a kid who had no one around her with a lick of sense. She must have beaten herself up over this ever since she drove away from the Lanes' house with empty arms. I wanted to be the avenging angel. Instead, I felt like a ruthless heel.
I managed to soften my tone as I asked the next question: "Were any of them Ben's children?"
She shrugged and shook her head. "I don't know. They could have been."
I took a deep breath. My anger cooled off as quickly as it had ignited. As I stood looking at my penitent mother, my mind went back to something I really did want to know. "Lizzie? Is Sam McCloud my father?"
Lizzie looked into my face and nodded. "Probably, yes, I think so. You do look like him... in some ways. If you could pick a man to be your father, you'd want it to be someone like him."
"But you're not sure?"
"No. Sorry."
"How much did you know about him?"
"I know he came from Tulsa. Born and raised. He had that Okie twang, you know?" She smiled at the recollection. "His birthday was, uh... June 4. He was born in 1963. Nice man. Helpful, strong, responsible."
"Do you think McCloud was his real name?"
Lizzie looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Sam McCloud was a character in a TV show in the seventies. And Jane said that when Sam died, you couldn't find any family."
"Anything's possible," Lizzie conceded. "But I never got the feeling he was running from anything."
We lapsed into silence. Then I asked, "Why are you here? I mean, here in this hotel room? Where is home for you?"
"Ah, home is a house here in the city. I live there with five— with the five women you've met. It's one of the houses that belong to our group. I'm here because Ben has a rule that when someone is sick they get set apart, quarantined."
"Why here?"
"Ben rents this whole floor from the hotel, so there's always spare rooms when we need them. If I knew when you were coming, I could have arranged one for you."
"The whole floor? What does he do up here?"
"It's office space. For his businesses."
"Businesses? Plural?"
"Yes, he's a motivational speaker. He's very good! I can get some of his CDs for you. Also, he does management retreats... business consulting, that sort of thing. He helps people and companies find and define their mission."
Oh, yes. I'd seen that sort of thing. It always amazed me, the junk that executives will shell out money for. I actually knew a guy who did that for a living. He cooked up some crazy slogans and put together three days of exercises. I sat through it once. He invited me along to fill up the numbers. It was trash. But he did it, over and over, all around the world, and made good money at it, too.
While I stood there, fishing for something to say, Lizzie turned her head and placed her hand on a book. It was one of those black and white composition books, the kind that kids use in elementary school, and it was sitting on her nightstand.
"I got this for you, Dexie. Or, I had someone bring it to me. It's for you."
I walked closer, and she handed it to me. I looked at the cover and took a quick look inside. It was the usual thing: pages with widely spaced blue lines and red margins. "It's empty," I said.
"Yes," she agreed. "It's a blank slate, like our relationship: you and me. We can fill it up together."
"No," I told her. "Our relationship is not a blank slate. We have history, you and me."
"No, no," she contradicted, shaking her curly locks. "We will start today and make everything new."
I considered it for a few moments. She watched my face, and saw the wave of contradiction coming. I'd seen Dexie grow, and was full of indignation at what she'd gone through. Lizzie could choose to live in a dream world, if that's what she wanted, but I wasn't going to let her off the hook for what she'd done to Dexie. But before I had the chance to throw cold water on her enthusiasm, Lizzie jumped in, saying, "At least let me tell you about your family history. You might be curious some day, and when your doctor asks about your medical history, you'll have answers. Okay?"
I considered...
"Please, Dexie? Please?"
"Okay," I said. It made sense. I could be civil. Dexie would have done that; she would have wanted to do that. And Lizzie was right; it was something I needed to know.
"Sit down," she invited, and she handed me a pen.
For the next two and a half hours we talked, with breaks for water and the bathroom. At her insistence I wrote down carefully, as neatly as I could, names, dates, and places... Lizzie's memory was remarkable. And Lane was right: she had a beautiful, enchanting voice. Her genealogical info went back as far her ancestors arrival in the US. "I know where they came from in Europe, but that's all. Who they were, and everything tht happened in the Old World, even just names, dates, professions... I don't know any of that. All the stories and anecdotes I managed to gather... they're all from this side of the Atlantic."
"How is it that you know all this?" I asked her, gesturing to my notebook.
"At one time Ben asked all of us to research our families," she said with a shrug.
"Why?"
"Does it matter? He asks us to do things so we have the opportunity to give up self-will," she replied. "Another time he asked us not to use the world really for three months. The exercise might have some other purpose, but mainly it's about self-will."
"Oh, brother," I groaned.
"You can't be sure you have free will unless you can do things you don't want to do."
I closed my notebook and put the cap on my pen.
Lizzie frowned. "Let's not get stuck on this," she said. "Let's try to find what's good and useful for you, and leave out everything that isn't. Okay? We don't need to talk about Ben or our group or anything else you find repugnant. Can we try that?"
We did try that, and it worked out pretty well.
We laughed and talked and hit a few rough spots, but on the whole, it was a wonderful afternoon. Sure, Lizzie wasn't perfect. But she was charming and open and fun.
... and, she was my mother.
I have to confess that, almost from the beginning of the trip, I'd been fantasizing that at some point I'd shout at Lizzie, "YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER!" and leave. Forever. Hopefully, I'd get to slam a door. I'd played that fantasy a lot in my head. I resented so deeply having to come to Spokane at all. Beyond that, it seemed like the appropriate thing to do; I would have done it for Dexie — or so I thought. Probably I would have done it to relieve my own frustration as a spectator in Dexie's childhood. But now my feelings were turned on their head. I really felt that I belonged with Lizzie. No matter what our past, she was really all the family I had now.
It struck me as she was telling an incident of some long-dead Martineau who lived back when Canada was still being settled. A light came on inside me, and I saw that it was true: These people are my ancestors. These people are a part of me. It was a physical fact: my history as Fred was, in a sense, purely metaphysical. My genes, my atoms, my bones and body all came from French and Scottish families who'd come to America, and it was all funneled down through Lizzie, to me.
Finally, though, my energy began to fade, and had to take the elevator down to my room, so I could sleep.
Still flush with the excitement of this new life I'd found, these new connections, I was a little irritated to feel my phone vibrating on my hip. I took it out and saw the signal vanish. "They'll call back," I said aloud, to no one. I knew it wasn't Arrow. Part of his Mission Impossible protocol was that he never called me.
"That way, I won't accidentally reveal that you have an active life-line," he explained.
So, who was calling? I went into my room, dropped heavily onto my bed, and looked at the face of my phone. Immediately it started buzzing again. It was Kristy. What could she be calling for?
"Hello?"
"Fr— Dexie! Oh, Dexie! Something's happened! You have to come!"
"What is it?" I cried, sitting up quickly. My heart began to pound. "Is it Carla? Is she okay? Is she hurt? Are you hurt?"
Kristy paused. I could hear someone talking in the background. Then she said to me, "Wait." After a few anxious moments, she resumed. "I'm sorry. Yes, we're fine. Carla's fine, I'm fine. How are you?"
"I'm fine, too! But tell me what's wrong!"
"Ah," she said, letting out a long breath. "You won't believe it. Are you sitting down?"
"God, Kristy, you're killing me! Just tell me!"
"The aliens have come back."
"What?"
"The aliens, the guys from space, have come back."
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. "The aliens? The aliens are back? The ones from the accident?"
"Yes," Kristy said. "And not just them: their parents are here, too."
I was struck dumb.
"Hello?" Kristy called. "Are you there?"
"Yes, yes," I stammered. "But what do they want?"
She paused, and I heard a voice in the background, prompting her to tell me. "What they want..." she said. "What they want is to bring Dexie back."
© 2014 by Kaleigh Way
Dan reddened a little. "Honestly, I thought this would be open-and-shut:
I'd ask you if we could go save Dexie, and you'd say yes.
I mean, you did like this girl, didn't you?"
"Bring Dexie back?" I echoed. "Back from the dead?"
"Yes," Kristy replied.
"Can they do that?"
"Apparently," Kristy said. "But you really have to hurry, because they are running out of time."
"Why?"
"I don't know why. But there's a limit, a time limit, and we've almost reached it." Once again, I heard the voice in the background, urging Kristy to tell me to hurry.
"Who is that?" I asked. "Who's talking to you?"
"You won't believe this," she answered, almost laughing, "but he's an attorney from Texas."
Puzzled, I retorted, "Why wouldn't I believe that?"
"Oh! You don't know! Because we're on the flying saucer... the spaceship, whatever."
"You and Carla?"
"Yes, and you need to come, right now! If you don't, they won't be able to bring Dexie back."
I hesitated a moment, then asked the obvious question: "Can't they just beam me up?"
"No, I already asked. They don't have that technology." Then, the voice in the background was speaking again. She said Okay to him, and to me said, "Listen, do you have access to a car?"
In the cab, on the way to pick up Arrow's car, I called Lizzie and told her that an issue had come up with the Holderlins (which was true), and that I'd be back as soon as I could.
I even threw in "I love you, Mom," at the end. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Arrow's car was exactly as I left it. It had only been a few days, after all. To retrieve the hide-a-key, I had to get my shirt dirty, lying on the ground and shifting under the car until I could reach the little magnetic box.
But hey! There was a clean shirt in the go-bag in the trunk. So after a quick change (and no, I didn't care if they saw my bra on the security cameras), I took off toward 90 West. As soon as I got out of the city, I called Arrow, and filled him in. I said, "Listen — you have to ignore the GPS tracker, especially if it turns off. Once I'm on the saucer, I don't know where we'll go."
"Where are you now?" he asked.
"I'm on 90 West. Once I pass Granite Lake I'll pull over and they'll pick me up."
"Don't go," Arrow told me. "Do not go. Go back to Spokane or turn around and take Route 2. Get the hell away from there."
"I have to go," I told him. "Otherwise Dexie stays dead."
"You are Dexie," he said.
"No," I countered. "I'm becoming Dexie, but she really is Dexie. If she can come back and live her life, I have to give her that chance. I can't steal her life."
"What about YOUR life?" Arrow retorted. "You realize for her to come back, you have to disappear."
I blanched at that.
"Or," he continued, "you have to go back to being Fred. Do you want that?"
"No," I assured him. "I definitely do not."
"I don't think Kristy wants you to be Fred any more either," he put in.
I sighed.
"I'm almost there," I lied. "I'm going to have to hang up."
"Just say no," he urged me. "Just say no! Don't leave me, Dexie. Don't. And don't do this to yourself. I love you!"
"I love you, too, you crazy man," I said, and turned off the phone.
I hung up because I needed time to think. But what exactly was there to think about? Dexie, if she could come back... I had to help. At the same time, I wanted to pull over and work out what I thought and knew and felt, but there wasn't time. If I stopped, Dexie would stay dead forever.
Obviously, they needed me so they could give Dexie her body back. And then? What would they do with me? They couldn't make me Fred again. Fred's body was broken beyond repair, and two weeks had passed... what a disgusting thought. I'd been embalmed (with everything that goes along with it) and buried. Even if they could clean up that mess, there was no way I'd step back into it. I didn't want to be Fred again. I was NOT going to be Fred, ever again.
Could two of us be Dexie? Could we both be Dexies? Maybe they wanted me back so they could make a clone, and put Dexie into it. Or I could be the clone. Maybe they could give me black hair, so we could be different. I don't know how Dexie would feel about that, but I could live with it. I'd be glad to go live in a different part of the country. All I'd need was a new identity, a new social security number...
Dexie, on the other hand, would be stepping back into the life I had already changed. I've already met her mother. Although, with Lizzie's high tolerance for the improbable, Dexie might be able to simply tell her the truth and start all over again.
And of course I'd give Dexie the composition book with her family history... I'd brought that along.
Hell, I could even go live with Arrow. That would keep me out of the way. I'd be way out of sight. I didn't need to marry the guy. Plus, I felt pretty sure that Arrow could help me cook up a new identity.
Oh, and my petition to change my name — or, rather, Dexie's name! That would be easy to undo. If she didn't show up at the court, or if she showed up and said she'd changed her mind, it would be fine. The process would simply stop. I'll give Dexie the money from her father, along with her birth certificate. I'll have to give her the explanations, too, since Lane won't be willing to do it again. (I'd have to explain *that*, too.)
It would all work out.
Once I'd settled everything in my head, I felt a lot better.
On my right, the watery expanse of Granite Lake was zooming by. I was getting close to the rendezvous, and I'd made pretty good time. It was only twenty minutes since Kristy's call.
To my surprise, the spaceship was parked just off the highway, in plain view, at the southern tip of the lake. Kristy and Carla stood near the craft, waving me toward a ramp.
"Do I just drive in?" I asked.
"Yes," Kristy said, as she and Carla climbed inside. "Get moving. There's no one on the road at the moment, but we can't dilly-dally."
I drove carefully up the ramp and turned off the engine. The ramp closed silently behind us, and we had a quick family hug.
"Sorry to rush you," Kristy apologized, "but they keep telling us that we're running out of time. Come on."
We ascended a spiral staircase, down a hall, and entered a conference room. It looked like any conference room on Earth, except that it had no windows. There was a long bar against one wall, filled with food: fruit, nuts, sandwiches, hot dishes of meat, chicken, rice, pasta, and all sorts of drinks. I helped myself to a large glass of white wine, which was quite nice.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" Kristy asked.
"I'm sure," I said. "Look at me." I held my arms up. "I'm shaking. Do you know what's going to happen?"
As Kristy replied in the negative, the door opened and a good-looking man in his forties walked in. He was wearing a suit and tie. "Are you the lawyer from Texas?" I asked.
"Guilty as charged," he quipped, and came forward to shake my hand. "You can call me Dan."
"Is that your name?" I asked.
"No," he admitted. "I like to keep my interstellar activities off the radar, so to speak." He smiled, but none of us did. "I'm going to sit down, but feel free to sit, stand, eat, drink... whatever makes you comfortable, while I explain what's going on.
"Let me apologize in advance if I appear hasty or insensitive, but time really is running out for your young friend, and I'll explain why in a moment.
"First of all, I have to ask: is Dexie — I mean young Dexie, the one who died — is she your daughter?" He looked from Kristy to me and back again.
"No," Kristy replied. "She is... she was a friend of the family."
"Is she a minor?"
"No, she just recently turned eighteen."
"Good," Dan said. "Now, here is the situation in a nutshell: The young aliens who caused your crash broke a heaping pile of laws, several of which are horrifying and distressing to the aliens in general, but to their parents in particular. Simply the act of racing with you qualifies as a form of harassment known as interfering with native culture, which is already a serious crime.
"But the fact that young Dexie died as a result, makes it a major crime. It's similar to vehicular homicide among us, except for one thing: the aliens take death far more seriously than we do.
"The parents of the young aliens want me to convey their deepest regrets and apologies. They want to express how horrified and mortified they are. They realize how badly this reflects on them, and they hope that you can find it in your hearts to join with them in setting things right. They especially want you to understand that they came as quickly as they could. Unfortunately, their ship had to assist in a rescue operation. There was an accident on another, unrelated ship. Forty-five people were killed, but several hundred were saved. And, because of the nature of their mission here, the survivors had to be off-loaded onto a third ship. Waiting for that third ship to arrive resulted in a delay of several days."
"Why couldn't they just bring the survivors along?" I asked.
"I'll come to that," Dan assured me. "But as to the rest of it, you're all with me?"
We all nodded.
"Next, we come to the reason for all the haste and pressure: The crimes that the young aliens committed against you and young Dexie are so serious, that — in Earth terms — they could spend the rest of their lives in jail.
"It's not really jail, per se, but they would pay for their mistake for as long as they lived. Luckily, they come from well-to-do families, and those families carry insurance that covers cases like these."
"Insurance?" I echoed. "What do they plan to do? Buy us off?"
"No," Dan said. "The insurance covers time travel: a very short, very focused intervention to correct the situation."
"Time travel?" Carla echoed. "Are they going to fix it so the accident never happened?"
"No," Dan said. "That's against the law. What they can do is prevent the accident from killing either Dexie or Fred Holderlin."
"Wait," I objected. "If they really can do this—"
"They can," Dan assured me.
"If they really can go back and alter the past, what do they need us for? If they've got all this power, why didn't they just go fix it?"
"They need your consent," Dan explained. "Time travel is very expensive, but it's also VERY highly regulated. There are all sorts of laws and controls and bureaucracy. They don't use paper, but if they did, there would be a mountain of paperwork on this."
"Why all the hurry, then?" Kristy demanded. "If they can travel in time, they could start next week or next year! Why did the three of us have to drop everything and run? Just because they feel ready?"
"No," Dan said. "You can't just go dipping at random in the past. They are only allowed to touch the recent past, and only if no major events have occurred. There is a time limit, and we've almost hit it."
"What is the limit?" I asked. "How much time do we have?"
"I can't tell you," Dan replied.
"Can't or won't?"
"I won't," Dan said. "It's against the law."
"Why?"
"Because it adds an adversarial element to these negotiations. If you knew how much time was left, you would want to use all that time. One side or the other could use the limit as leverage. If we pass the limit, I'll tell you. But I won't warn you when we get close. Besides, what if a major event occurs while we're talking? We have to make haste, but as carefully as we can."
Stunned, Kristy, Carla, and I looked open-mouthed at each other. Dan watched us, then assured us in a soft, quite voice, as if he were afraid of being overheard, "Don't worry. We have enough time to talk. We don't have time to argue or dissect every detail. We'll address all of your concerns, but we can't waste time. In any case, the decision should be simple. It comes down to this: Is young Dexie going to live or not?"
Dan took a deep breath and drank a little water, then he continued in a normal tone. "The more time passes, the more difficult it becomes to change things. It takes more energy, because there is a kind of unwinding that needs to be done. It also becomes more dangerous, the more time passes, and major events can prevent them from going back at all."
"After they've fixed it... after they change the past, what happens to all the things we've done since the accident?" I asked.
"It all disappears," Dan said, "because those things won't happen."
"We'll remember everything, though, won't we?"
"No," Dan said. "You won't experience it, so you won't remember it. You won't remember any of it."
"Wait," Kristy said. "Back up a step. You can't hold a gun to our heads like that. If we pass the limit are you going to say, So sorry, too late: Dexie stays dead?"
Dan reddened a little. "Okay," he said. "I'll see if I can give you a warning. I'll have to go ask. But honestly, I didn't think we'd need much discussion. I thought this would be open-and-shut: I'd ask you if we could go back and save Dexie, and you'd say yes. I mean, you did like this girl, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course we did!" Kristy protested. "We do! We all do!"
"Are you hesitant because you don't want to go through the accident again?" Dan asked.
Kristy stopped. "I hadn't thought about that..."
"It will be the first time for you," Dan said. "It won't be a repeat experience. I'm sorry to ask you to go through it, but it's the only way."
"Exactly how are you going to save Dexie?" I asked.
Dan got a smug, satisfied look on his face. He enjoyed this part. "Dexie died because the air bags failed. We'll go back before the accident and fix the air bags. Simple! That way, she'll get banged around a little, but she'll walk away without a scratch."
"And me?" I asked with a gulp. "I mean, what about Fred?"
"That was a tricky one," Dan said with evident satisfaction, "but I came up with the solution. Your body was mashed up because you weren't wearing a seat belt. The problem becomes: how to put you in a seat belt? The answer was pretty simple: we'll put seat-belt sensors in the back seat. It will all be done using current Earth technology, and after the accident, the car will be totaled. No one will ever know."
"Hmmm," I said, with a little sadness. Dan didn't notice.
"So!" Dan said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. "Are we all on board?"
Kristy looked around the table before she spoke. I nodded when she looked at me. She was doing just fine as our spokesperson. "We all want to bring Dexie back. We want her to live and have her life back. But there's something else: we all have something to lose here."
Dan's brow wrinkled. Puzzled, he asked, "What would you lose, exactly?"
"I was epileptic," Carla offered. "The aliens fixed that after the accident."
"I was legally blind," Kristy put in. "And the aliens fixed that. And... I was a little older, too."
Dan chuckled. "I don't think that will be a problem! Let me just run this by my alien counterpart—" and he began to stand.
I put my hand on his arm to stop him. "I have an issue, too," I said.
"And that is?"
"I was Fred."
"I know that," he replied, smiling. "Don't worry! We'll put you back, good as new. You'll be Fred once again."
I looked at him. I squeezed his arm and shook it gently, but somehow I couldn't speak. The words refused to come out. So Kristy spoke for me. "I don't think she wants to be Fred again."
"Oh!" Dan exclaimed. "Really! Well— Huh! I just assumed— I figured... I thought... hmmph! Well, well!" He was clearly flustered and embarrassed. "Now, that's a horse of a different color, isn't it!"
© 2014 by Kaleigh Way
“It’s terrible that we won’t remember any of this. Some of it, like the fight with your mother,
I’d gladly forget, but if there was one moment that I could take and keep,
it would be this one with you, here and now.”
Dan, looking a little shaken, left the room to confer with his counterpart, the alien lawyer. Carla stood up and went to pick at the buffet. Kristy and I sat looking at each other. I realized I ought to apologize for not having called, but as I opened my mouth to say it, Kristy spoke first.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called you,” she said. “I hope you’ve been okay.” Her tone was kind of flat, almost as if she was reading the words off a cue card.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’ve been pretty busy, trying to figure out Dexie’s life.”
She looked skeptical. “How hard can it be? Dexie’s life wasn’t complicated at all.”
“You’d be surprised,” I assured her. “I can hardly believe it myself, but trying to understand who she was, even when she was only a baby, is mind-blowing. I thought her life was a blank slate, but it isn’t at all. At first I fought it. I didn’t want to know. But gradually… well, today really — yes, today! — I realized I have to pick up her life where she left off: figuring out where she came from and who she is. Dexie already had a place in the world and all sorts of connections and relations. There was a lot that she was just about to do. I need to learn all of it, and step in and make it mine. Well, not really mine. It’s Dexie’s life. It’s the strangest thing, and hard to explain, but it’s almost as if I’m borrowing her life, or living it for her, or something like that.”
“Not any more,” Kristy remarked drily. “Now she’ll come back and live it for herself.”
“Yeah, no,” I agreed, fumbling, “I mean… yeah.” Then I fell silent.
Kristy picked the thread up again. “I was going to say that I hadn’t call because I was busy settling all Fred’s business, but that wasn’t the reason at all.”
“No? What was the reason?”
I heard Carla sigh behind me. She knew what was coming. I should have seen it myself: Kristy had been building up energy, like a gathering electrical storm, and her lightning bolts were nearly fully charged.
Her eyes narrowed, and she began breathing a little faster. “Well… the thing is… that you—” She paused. I could see she was exasperated, fed up with something. That something had to be me, but (as was often the case) I had no idea what I’d done or hadn’t done to set her off. Kristy continued to search for a way to start. “I don’t know why I even need to explain this. You—” and she stopped again.
What on Earth was Kristy getting at? “What?” I asked her. “What about me?”
Carla, in a burst of impatience, cut in. To Kristy, she said, “Just say it, Ma!” and to me, “She’s upset because you like being a girl!”
“Really?” I was dumbfounded.
Kristy pressed a tissue to her face and cried angry tears. “Yes, really! What do you think? Look at you! You’re so happy! Out of the blue, poof! you’re a girl, and you just take to it, like a duck to water!”
“What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “In any case, it’s not as though I had any choice.”
“What’s wrong with it? Choice? How do you know you didn’t have a choice? You didn’t even bother to ask! You didn’t object. You didn’t even say Wait a minute! You didn’t tell them that you’re a MAN and that you needed a man’s body!”
“This isn’t fair,” I objected. “You know they gave me something to make me calm and… uh… accepting.”
Kristy growled. “Accepting? You accepted in spades!”
I could feel myself beginning to shake. “Would you rather I simply died in that accident?”
She glared at me, tight-lipped for a few beats, then said, “Yes. Yes, since you ask me, sometimes I do wish that you’d died in that crash. Then I would never have known.”
I felt my face go white. “Known what?”
“That you wanted to be a girl!” Kristy exploded. “The big secret that you’ve been hiding from me all our life together. Our whole marriage was a lie! Who are you? Who are you really? Look at you! I never knew you! You have betrayed me in the deepest way possible!”
“I haven’t,” I stammered. “I love you. I always loved you. I never—”
She scoffed. “Tell me the truth now: Did you have a secret life? Did you wear my clothes when I wasn’t around? Were you in love with a man? I always knew there was something funny about you.”
“No,” I told her. “None of this ever entered my mind. As far as I know. I never thought about it. And you’re really going overboard with this.”
Kristy let out an exasperated growl. “And now, to cap it all,” she said, nearly shouting, “NOW, we’re going back to the way it was, to be together again, as if none of this ever happened!”
All the blood drained from my face. If I’d been standing, I would have fallen. Although I hadn’t done anything wrong, I felt guilty and… to tell the truth, very frightened. I didn’t know what to do.
“I don’t want to go back to being Fred,” I told her in a quiet voice.
“It doesn’t look like you have a choice,” she countered, her eyes flashing fire. “But then again, you like it when you don’t have a choice. And damn it, I don’t have a choice either!”
“Mom,” Carla put in, “When we go back, you won’t remember any of this. None of us will.”
“That makes it even worse! I’ll be living a lie once again! You’ll be making a fool of me, and I’ll won’t have the slightest idea!” She stood as she was shouting, and stormed off. Her exit was not as dramatic as she probably hoped: it took her three tries to find the door to the bathroom.
As soon as Kristy shut herself in, Carla asked me, “Can you give me a hand?” Startled, still weak from Kristy’s attack, but glad of something to do, I joined Carla at the buffet, where she had loaded two plates with fruit, cheese, and chocolate truffles. She’d also poured two steaming cups of tea as well.
“Those are yours and these are mine,” she said, smiling at me and gesturing at the plates. We carried the food back to the conference table and munched on fresh strawberries. The tea was perfectly hot, aromatic, and tasty. “These aliens put on a nice spread,” Carla joked.
“Yes, they do,” I agreed. “They must come to Earth a lot.”
“I guess so. I mean, look, they have their own lawyer.”
“Yeah, what is that about?”
“Supposedly, he’s representing us.”
“Really?”
“That’s what he said. I guess he’s done this before.”
“I wonder whether this is all he does.”
“No, he said he only works occasionally for the aliens. Most of the time he’s somewhere in Texas, doing real-estate law.”
“Hmmph,” I said. I appreciated Carla’s small talk. My whole body was still having tremors and aftershocks. My hands vibrated. I couldn’t stop the shaking or even slow it down, and that made me realize that it was adrenaline. I’d just have to wait until the effects wore off. The fear — if fear was what I was feeling — would pass in time.
Carla went on to talk about what she’d been doing. She told me news about her friends. Preparations for college, and so on. We ate and sipped tea, and it was lovely. I mostly listened, and her voice became my lifeline. If you’re a parent, you know how wonderful and rare are the moments when you can simply spend time with your child and enjoy each other’s company. This was one of those moments, and I didn’t want to ruin it by speaking, except to squeeze her hand and thank her.
“Hey!” she said, remembering something. “Do you want to see where we are?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We’re in space somewhere,” she replied. “Probably in orbit. I guess that’s where everybody goes when they’re in space, right? In orbit?”
“I guess I thought we were still sitting near Granite Lake,” I said.
“Naw!” she laughed. “Didn’t you feel the takeoff, right after you drove in?”
I shook my head no. She jumped to her feet, grabbed one last chocolate truffle, and stuffed it whole into her mouth. Then she grabbed my hand and dragged me behind her into the hallway. We followed a long curve until the hallway ended in a little lounge decorated with ferns and armchairs. “This is very… Earth-like,” I commented. “I mean, this is like some waiting rooms I’ve been in.”
“Yeah, I think that’s the idea,” Carla agreed. “I’m pretty sure this floor was made for Earth people, so we could feel comfortable and at home.”
And yet, the view outside the window was nothing like home. It actually was home: the big blue ball called Earth. Majestic was the word that came to mind: the colors were so intense and real. There’s nothing I can compare it to. Space itself, the background, was the blackest black imaginable. The blues of our oceans were ultramarine; the swirls of clouds intensely white. This sounds idiotic to say, but it looked just like a picture. Except that it was immense. It was literally as big as the world.
“Is that Africa?” I ventured.
“No, it’s South America,” Carla laughed. “Sorry! It’s funny, but Dexie wasn’t any good at Geography, either.”
I sighed. Carla smiled.
“You know,” I told her, “It’s terrible that we won’t remember any of this. Some of it, like the fight with your mother, I’d gladly forget, but if there was one moment that I could take and keep, it would be this one, here and now.”
My eyes teared up, and so did Carla’s. Then laughing, she cried, “You’re such a girl!” and hugged me tight. I closed my eyes, wishing I could pack away this moment as well.
Ben politely interrupted with a quiet cough. He was smiling, and he was squeezing his left hand in his right. I got the impression that he was excited, but trying to appear calm.
“It is unfortunately that you won’t remember this,” he said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Could we take a picture?” I asked.
“It would be physically possible,” Dan said. “Yes, but it’s illegal. And if you could give it to your past selves, you’d be giving them an enormous puzzle. It wouldn’t remind them of anything. And you’d probably think it was a picture of Carla and her friend.”
“I’d like to try, though,” I whispered.
“You’re not going to have any contact with your past selves,” he told me. “We — the rest of us in the ship — will go back, fix your car, and disappear. You’ll have to stay here in the future.”
“What will happen to us?”
“You’ll just not ever have happened,” he said.
“But you’ll remember?”
“I'll know it happened,” Dan said. “I know it’s not fair, but that’s the law. I have to witness on your behalf.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I objected.
“Don’t bust your brain over it,” Dan suggested.
“We’re going to forget everything anyway,” Carla laughed.
“You seem awfully happy about this,” I observed.
“Well, I’m getting my Dad and my best friend back!” she explained.
I processed that in silence.
Dan took a breath and in a tentative tone asked, “Can I make a suggestion? I overheard you say that you’d fought with Kristy. Maybe we can clear things up more quickly if we divide and conquer. I’ve gotten them to agree that the four of you will have all the medical fixes and improvements that you need or received, and we’ll list them out before we go.” He looked at Carla. “It sounds like you’re on board to go help your friend.”
“Yes!” Carla responded with enthusiasm.
“And it seemed clear that Kristy was on board, too, as long as the medical upgrades were part of the deal.”
“I think so,” Carla agreed.
“Great! Then, Carla, why don’t you go back with your mother, or stay here, whatever you like, while you, Dexie or Fred or whoever you are, come along with me. Between the two of us and my alien counterpart, I’m sure we can find a way to make this work for you.”
The three of us walked back the way we came, leaving Carla at the conference room. Dan and I continued another thirty yards or so, until we door with a key-card lock, like in a hotel. He opened it with a card and held the door for me. The two of us entered a place that looked like a suite in a residence hotel.
“This is my home away from home when I’m working for the aliens,” he told me. “I like hotels, and they obliged me. I have to say, I’m much obliged.” It was pretty big for a faux hotel room. There was a sitting area with two small sofas and chairs, a low coffee table, and a large TV hanging on the wall. The last item intrigued me, but I wasn’t going to waste time asking about it. We were standing in a kitchenette, with a full sized fridge, a two-burner stove top, and plenty of cabinets. In the middle, between the two areas was a medium-sized, round table with four chairs. Dan gestured to two closed doors on the left. “First one’s the bathroom, second one’s the bedroom,” he explained. “And that’s the grand tour. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks. I already had a glass of wine and I’m already a little light-headed.”
“Mind if I have one?” he asked, smiling, and without waiting for an answer he opened a liquor cabinet in the seating area and poured himself two inches of bourbon. “Blanton’s,” he said, holding up the glass toward my face. “Give it a sniff.”
I gave a few experimental sniffs. “That does smell nice,” I admitted. “Like, uh, caramel or toffee.”
“Umm,” he agreed, sipping. “Sure you don’t want one?”
“No,” I said. “I really want to settle this question.”
“Okay,” he said. “We will.” Then he took a small tablet from his pocket and looked at it. He chuckled and turned the screen towards me. “Do you see this?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” I replied. “It’s a little iPad.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you see on the screen?” He began tilting it to different angles, smiling the whole time as if it were some great joke.
“It’s blank,” I said, getting a little irritated, “you can quit shaking it. There’s nothing there.”
“Ha!” he laughed. “I can’t believe it. See, the thing is — they told me only *I* could see the writing, but how can I know if that’s true? You see the problem?”
I opened my hands and shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dan laughed and gave my shoulder a playful push.
“Did you have a drink while you were away?” I asked him. That made him laugh all the more.
“No, no,” he said. “I’m as sober as a Parmer County Judge!” He smiled and explained, “Parmer’s a dry county.”
“Oh, come on!” I cried, exasperated. “We have a problem to solve, and we’re running out of time! I don’t understand what’s come over you. Until now, you were pushing us to hurry, telling us there was no time, and now you’re acting all goofy and silly.”
“Goofy and silly?” he repeated. “Yes, I guess I am. But I’ve got some new information, and the situation is very different from before.”
“In what way?”
“First of all, I asked about the time limit. I think I mentioned that when they go back in time, they sort of unwind things. It’s not really what happens, it’s just a way to visualize it.”
“So?”
“And so, they can actually test how soft time is, how much energy it would take to start unwinding, and how far back they can go. Right now, it’s ideal. It’s about as soft as time gets, so to speak. They’re constantly sampling, and if it starts to harden, even infinitesimally, we’ll go.”
“What about us?”
“Us? You mean you and me?”
“No!” I was getting quite irritated. “I mean me, Kristy, and Carla!”
“Oh, we’ll put you in a lifeboat heading for Earth. You’ll never get there, because we’ll start unwinding as soon as you’re out of range, but just in case, you know… if something goes wrong with us, you’ll end up back home in the present.”
I silently took that in.
“Anyway, given the current conditions, they estimate we’ve got at least four hours.”
“Okay, good,” I said, relaxing a bit.
“See? I didn’t know that,” he said, grinning. “Pays to ask questions, see?”
“I see,” I said. “And did you ask my questions? About cloning and my other ideas?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, sitting down. I didn’t like the twinkle in his eye. Something was definitely up with this Texas attorney. I sat down facing him. He glanced at the iPad and set it on the table. “Now, I ran your various ideas past my counterpart. Your first idea was clones. Now, they can make clones. It’s easy. Unfortunately, having a clone wouldn’t solve your problem at all. If they made a clone of you today, that clone would only be an embryo. But even if it was a newborn baby, it wouldn’t be developed enough to receive someone else's self, their consciousness. Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” I said. “You explain it very well.”
“Thank you. Now — oh, I forgot to say: that clone would not be you. Do you understand? That clone would be a separate and independent person in her own right. Except for her age, she’d be your twin. Did you know that twins are naturally occurring clones? I didn’t know that. Just found out today. Learned something new.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. My shoulders began to droop.
“Don’t lose heart, now! Don’t lose hope!" He gave my hand a squeeze. "Just one last point on the clone question: even if she was your age, they wouldn’t be able to put you or Dexie into her, because SHE would already be there. Do you know what I mean? They can only transfer a soul into someone who’s recently dead. You have to have an empty vessel to pour into. No mixing allowed. It would be a kind of murder.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, heady stuff!” He took a big sip of bourbon. “That was idea one. Now, your second idea was that we rescue young Dexie and let you remain as a second Dexie. We — the alien lawyer and I — discussed this question at great length.” He stopped and glanced at the iPad, and stared at it in silence for a few seconds. Then he set it down and resumed. “That idea has some merit, because even if it’s not quite to the letter of the law, it does have the advantage of being physically possible—”
“It is?” I squeaked, jumping a little in my chair.
Dan chuckled, patting my shoulder. “Aren’t you the cutest thing? But hold on, I’m not through explaining. What we’d do, if we followed your idea, is to bring you back in time with us. We fix the car, and let you loose two weeks back in time. There’d be two Dexies: the real one, and you. We couldn’t change your hair color, though. You’d be alike as two peas in a pod.
“Unfortunately, there are several problems with this approach. The first one is that we’d have to let Fred die.”
“Oh,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Yes, and the aliens don’t like that part. Also, we’d have two versions of the same person running around.”
“Would that create a paradox?”
“Naw. Nobody cares about paradoxes. That’s just science fiction.”
“I could stay out of her way. I could go live with Arrow.”
“Oh yes,” Dan’s left eyebrow rose. "The man in Seattle."
"How do you know about him?"
"Before you got here, I spoke with Kristy and Carla. I needed to get a timeline. They mentioned his name. Are you sure he'd let you live with him? How well do you know him?"
“He’s an old friend, and um… uh—” I wasn't sure how much I wanted to say. I touched the engagement ring, which was still in my pocket. Dan's eyes followed my hand, although he couldn't know what I'd touched. Still, a knowing smile came across this face.
“I get the picture, I get the picture. Arrow's your old friend. And you know he's an old dog, isn't he. You went up there and said How do you like me now? And he liked it, am I right? Not two weeks a woman, and you’re already breaking hearts. It must be that amazing red hair. I’ve been distracted by it myself.
"But you know, just because it worked once, doesn't mean it would work again. Things would be different, and he might not react the same way. You could give your little smile and say Hey, baby, like last time, but this time he might not roll over and let you scratch his belly."
"Hey!" I objected, reddening a little.
"Then again, when you go there and shake your feminine assets..." He smiled and shrugged. "Problem is, there's no guarantee."
I paused, pulled back a little, and gave him a serious look. “I don't think you’re concentrating on the problem at hand.”
“Oh, I am! Believe me, I am!” he exclaimed, patting my knee for emphasis. “Unfortunately — or perhaps, fortunately — the aliens nixed your idea. They didn't like the idea of two Dexies. It’s not strictly legal, it leaves Fred dead, but most of all they didn't want to leave you all alone in the big, wide world, with not one to help you or care for you. No one would know who you were, and you wouldn’t have a penny to your name.”
“Couldn’t I—”
“No, you couldn’t,” he said. “You've got nothing to take with you.”
“Oh,” I said, crumbling into myself. “That was my last idea.”
“It’s just a matter of being safe,” he explained, spreading his hands open in a gesture of apology.
He was about to continue, but then, just in that moment, another idea struck me. “Hey! What if I stay here? What if I stay on the ship, and go off with the aliens to… to wherever it is they’re going?”
“Huh!” Dan grunted. His silly smile fell away, and he seemed quite put out. He stared into my face in surprise and consternation. He made a strange, disappointed huff. His face took on a pout, like a little boy who expected candy but didn’t get it.
“Do you think that could happen?” I asked.
“Well,” he said slowly, looking down at the table. “I don't rightly know. I suppose we could ask.”
“It doesn’t sound like you want to ask,” I observed.
“Well, let’s say I had an idea of my own about what you could do,” he grumbled. “I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself. I mean…”
“What?” I asked. “If you’ve got an idea, I’d like to hear it.”
“Okay,” he said, sitting up straight again. “Okay,” he repeated. He picked up his glass and drained the rest of the bourbon, tilting his head all the way back. He set the glass down with a smack! on the table and took a deep breath.
“Let me start off by saying that earlier, when we first met, I misunderstood your situation.” Once again, he gave me a knowing look, as though much was implied in what he'd said. But I didn't get it.
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“See, I thought you were — ha! — as they say, a man trapped in a woman’s body. I thought you’d jump at the chance to be a rooster again. I had no idea that you enjoyed… that you wanted, to be a woman.”
“Okay,” I said again. “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
He looked at me, baffled. He seemed a little indignant. “You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?” he said. “You want me to say it.”
“If you don’t say it, I won’t know what you're getting at.”
"You don't know what I'm thinking right here, right now?" he demanded.
"I have no idea," I protested.
“You know what I’m thinking,” he countered. He pointed his index finger at me and said, "You know."
“Just say it,” I told him. I was getting pretty exasperated. "Would you please just say it?"
“All right,” he said, “All right. All right, I’ll say it. Here it is: When I heard you say that you wanted to be a girl, I realized that you were into it.”
“Into it?” I echoed. "Into what?"
“Oh, come on!” he said, as if he were belaboring an obvious point. “You wanted to have fun!”
I looked at him in disbelief.
“You know what fun is, don’t you?” he asked me. "Don't tell me that's not why you want this so bad. You got a taste, and you found you like it. This is why you want to carrying on being a girl. Girls just wanna have fun, am I right? You're a girl; you want to have fun. And don't pretend you don't know what fun is. You KNOW what I'm talking about."
“I know what YOU think fun is,” I replied. “I don’t see how having 'fun' is going to solve my problem.”
"Why are you making me work so hard?" he muttered. He balled his fists and shouted, “All right! All right! All right, now! I’ll come right out and say it: Why don’t you come to Texas with me?”
© 2014 by Kaleigh Way
"Let me get this straight: Say I come to Texas with you. We go back in time, to two weeks ago. At that point, there'll be two of you, right? The one who is back there now, and the present you. Once you return to the present, there will still be two of you, right? because the one who is back there now will have caught up. How do you handle that?"
My first impulse was to tell Dan, Sorry, I can't. I'll be washing my hair. In fact, I almost said it out loud.
Why would I such a nonsensical thing? Put it down to my teen hormones. That whole business (the "raging hormones") is something you forget as an adult, and something you don't understand as a teenager: you get a lot of opportunities to work on your impulse control, and most of the time, you lose. Luckily I was mature enough inside to keep a lid on my whimsy.
My inner pause — where I metaphorically bit my tongue — made me think: I had to watch what I said to Dan. Sure, only an idiot would ask what he'd asked, but on the other hand, this idiot was my only resource. He was my only way out of this mess. I needed to keep Dan on my side, or at least not offend him. There were still at least four hours left. Enough time to find a solution, hopefully. In the worst case, I'd give up, climb in the lifeboat with Carla and Kristy, and go back to being Fred. We'd disappear, along with my memories of my life as Dexie, so I'd never know what I'd given up. Thankfully, Kristy's tantrum and rage would disappear as well, along with the confusion and fear it left in me. It would all fade away, because it never would have happened. Nothing like it had ever happened in our life together before, thank God.
I enjoyed my life as Fred. Apart from my recent medical problems, it was a great life; a very lucky life. As far as my medical issues were concerned, the aliens were going to fix that.
In other words, I wasn't desperate. I certainly wasn't desperate enough to take Dan's offer.
Still, if there was any way I could remain as Dexie — any way that made sense, I mean — I was ready to do it. Until I could come up with a sensible plan, I needed to keep talking to Dan. I needed to stall for time. Although *I* didn't need to talk; I needed to keep Dan talking. He loved the sound of his own voice, sure, but he also knew a lot about the alien technology. So far, he'd been pretty good at explaining how things worked. Maybe I could find a possibility there. I just needed to stall. I needed to keep pedaling.
And so, in the spirit of stalling, I stood up and asked him, "Do you mind if I have a drink?"
Dan took that as an encouraging sign. He smiled and held his empty glass toward me. "Why don't you get me a refill while you're over there, darlin'?"
I gave him a little smile (but not too much), and slowly walked to the liquor cabinet. I poured him another two inches of bourbon, walked it back to him, and then returned and considered my poison. I settled on an ounce of Jameson's. The bottle had never been opened, so it made a very satisfying crack! when I twisted off the cap.
While I stood by the liquor cabinet, I asked him, "Are you inviting me to Texas two weeks ago, or Texas now?"
"It would have to be Texas two weeks ago," he replied. "Does it matter?"
"I guess not," I replied. "But why does it have to be back then?"
He took a sip of bourbon, swilled it in his glass, and frowned. "What difference does it make? Do you want to come with me or not? I don't think you'll be getting many offers in the next four hours."
"I have to think about it!" I protested. "I hardly know you!"
He smiled again, and his eyes twinkled. "There's a remedy for that," he laughed. When I gave a puzzled frown, he explained, "There's a bed in the room back there," as he gestured to one of the doors.
"That's not what I meant," I replied in a soft voice. "I have to think about my life. For instance, what about my identity? I'll need a name, a birth certificate, a social security card, and so on."
"Oh, yeah," he said. "No problem. The aliens and I have worked out a system for generating documents and identities. Did you know, the aliens make extended visits on Earth? My alien counterpart, actually went to college in Chicago, Illinois! Can you believe that?"
"Sure, I guess I believe it," I shrugged. "How's it work?"
He sighed.
"Hey, look," I told him, "I need to ask questions! Can I point out that I haven't said no yet?"
"You don't seem too excited, either."
"Give me a little time. I have to think. I need to consider."
He grunted an unwilling consent. Then he picked up the iPad from the table and looked at the blank screen as if he were reading. He frowned, blew out his cheeks, and then stared intently at the pad for a few moments. His lips moved slightly.
"What is that thing?" I asked.
"It's a means of communicating with my alien counterpart," he explained. "It's tuned to my brain waves somehow, so only I can read it. He sends me messages, and I hear a ding. You haven't heard it, have you? A light little ding? Very soft?" I shook my head no. "If I look at the pad and pretend I'm writing on it, or pretend I'm talking to it — not out loud of course, just pretend — then what I think gets written there, and my counterpart can read it."
"Handy," I commented.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "Sometimes. Most of the time it's just a big pain in the butt."
I nodded and took a tiny sip of whiskey. A warm, sunny sensation flowed over me, filling my whole body. I guess I was pretty sensitive to it.
"Okay, now," I said, sitting down at the table, "let me get this straight: Say I come to Texas with you. We go back in time, to two weeks ago— no wait, let me finish! At that point, there'll be two of you, right? The one who is back there now, and the present you. Once the mission is complete, and you return to the present, there will still be two of you, right? because the one who is back there now will have caught up. How do you handle that?"
He gave me a sly smile and a slow wink.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh, don't be coy! You know what," he smirked.
"Let's not do this again. I have no idea what you're thinking."
"You're asking whether there will be two of me, because you're thinking of a threesome!"
"No!" I said. "My God!"
He grunted in annoyance.
"So?" I asked.
"So what?" he responded.
"So, how do you handle these duplicates that pop up when you go back and forth in time?"
"You don't handle it, because it doesn't work that way," Dan replied.
"Oh!" I interrupted, struck by a sudden thought. "And what about all the dead people from that accident? The forty-five people who died on that other spaceship?"
"What about 'em?" he asked.
"Their bodies will go back in time and then return. What if the accident doesn't happen the second time around?"
"Okay," Dan said, and rubbed his face with both hands, the way a person does when they're tired. "Let's take your ideas one at a time: If we brought the bodies back and forth, and the accident didn't happen, you'd have a bunch of corpses for a bunch of people who are still alive. You follow? There'd be the dead one and the live one.
"Also, if we carried the corpses into the past and back, and the accident happened again, we'd have two corpses for each person.
"In fact, if it worked like that, everybody on this ship would have at least one double. If I went back and forth in time for this mission, at the end there would be two of me. The captain of this ship has gone on two dozen time missions (give or take). If what you're thinking was correct, there would be a small tribe of him now, but there's not."
"Why not?"
"Because time travel is a local phenomenon. It takes a tremendous amount of energy. It wasn't even possible until they could generate enough energy to encompass a whole planet. Imagine that the time-travel field is a big balloon. The aliens only have enough air (or energy) to blow that balloon up to Earth-size. That's the limit.
"When they move backward and change something, it only changes inside the balloon: on Earth, or whatever the target planet is.
"Think about time inside the balloon as a mass of threads, all woven and tangled together. If any of those threads extend outside the balloon, it breaks the balloon. The air (or energy) just keeps leaking out. That spaceship accident? That's big. That's a huge event, but it has nothing to do with Earth. That event is not going to rewind and play again. It's too far out of range. It's not going to be affected by our mission.
"The only people who have to worry about doubles are the four of us from Earth: you, your family, and me. That's why none of us can go back.
"The rest of the people on this ship are from other planets, far off. Or if they visited Earth, it was long ago. So we won't be running into their doubles in Earth's past."
My eyebrows popped. "You can't go back either?"
"Nope," Dan admitted. "When you three get put into a lifeboat heading for home, they will put me in one, heading for my little corner of Texas. The ship will start peeling back time, and the four of us will vanish. We will never have happened."
He sniffed and took another sip of bourbon. He twitched and blinked, and his body gave a quick shudder. The effect was far from reassuring — I had to wonder whether he'd taken something other than a drink during the brief time he'd been away.
"On the other hand, if you want to stay with me in Texas, you could go back in time and stay there. It's true that there'd be two of you — you and the original Dexie — but as you said yourself, that's the idea."
"Why would I stay?" I asked him.
"It's just easier that way. Do you remember when I told you that I have to witness on your behalf? I have to witness the rescue, when they rescue Dexie."
"Yes," I replied, puzzled. "I remember, but I don't see the connection."
"I can't go into the past, or come out of the past again — just as you said. There would be two of me, forever after. So what I do each time I'm on one of these missions, is to prepare some instructions for myself; the myself of two weeks ago. Now, this is a little tricky, but it works.
"The aliens go back in time. They pick me up, they give me my instructions (from my future self), and I go along to witness the event and do what amounts to paperwork. Do you follow?"
"I think so. So you're saying you'll include in your instructions, Take this girl home?"
Dan grinned. "Yes, exactly!"
"That sounds pretty sleazy to me," I observed. Dan's grin expanded and he laughed. He actually slapped his knee and hooted.
I asked him, "How do you know that the you from two weeks ago will accept me and do what you promise?"
"I know," Dan replied, "Because I have recently been that man, and I know that he is a low-down, dirty, woman-chasin' dog, just like me."
I sighed. He looked at me in silence, smiling.
He took another sip of bourbon, which reminded me that I, too, had a drink, so I took an infinitesimally small sip and let the liquid warm in my mouth. I rested my chin in my right hand and looked down at the table. I wanted to think — I needed to think, but no thoughts were coming. I rested my glass on the table, but held on to it, toying with the liquid inside, tilting and rocking and turning it, this way and that. Dan put his hand on mine, and I let him. What difference did it make? I wasn't going to go with him in any case.
Surprisingly, his fingers were calloused. His touch made me aware of how soft my skin felt. His nails, however, were clean and well kept. I looked at his face. He smiled. At least he had enough sense not to talk. He figured his odds of catching me were pretty good, and he didn't want to blow it.
My mind wandered over the ship, or what I imagined the ship to be. I didn't have much material to go on. I didn't know the size of the crew or what sort of machinery they had. In fact, the only thing I knew was that somewhere was an alien attorney, and somewhere there were forty-five alien bodies.
"Dan? Where do they keep the bodies?"
"Who? What? Are you talking about Texas, now? What bodies?"
"The people who died in that spaceship accident."
"Oh!" he scoffed. "I wouldn't know. Probably in a cargo bay."
"Won't they stink? I mean, bodies decompose."
"No. They've got ways of preserving things. Like food, you know. They've got these generators that kind of freeze things in time. They can ship fresh fruit across the universe. They keep the dead folks fresh, too."
"Couldn't they save some of those people? The way they saved me?"
"Uhhh—" Dan had to think a bit before he understood what I was saying. His eyes were red as if he'd been up all night. "You mean take somebody's soul and put it in another person's body?"
I nodded.
"Maybe they did, for all we know. In any case, that's another legal mess. I didn't mention that it's one reason we have to undo what the teenage aliens did after your accident. They never should have put you into Dexie's body in the first place. She was not, uh... You see... erm... Let me put it this way: are you an organ donor?"
"Yes."
"Being a body donor is similar. You have to opt-in. You need to make an active decision and a legal declaration that you're willing to have a stranger use your body after you're dead. Dexie never did that."
My jaw dropped. "Then why did you ask me go to Texas with you?" I demanded. "Were you just scamming me, to get me into bed?"
He denied it, with evident irritation. "No, of course not! Remember, the original idea was to turn you back into Fred. That would be the remedy for the teenagers' crime; for that specific crime. Now, on the other hand, now that Dexie will be restored to herself, if you keep this body, it will be seen as a separate remedy for Fred."
"I guess I see," I admitted.
I took another sip of whiskey, and a light began to dawn, some bits of an idea... a way out for me, possibly.
However, it would completely derail Dan's idea of hauling me off to Texas. Could I trust him to bring it to the aliens on my behalf? I mean, he was a living example of conflict of interest. There was no way I could trust him to faithfully represent my interest.
Abruptly Dan sat up and made an irritated noise. He took his hand off mine and picked up the little pad. Another little inspiration hit me.
"Dan," I whispered, "I want to talk to the alien attorney."
With his eyes glued to the screen, he mumbled, "She wants to talk to the alien attorney." He barely knew what he was saying.
Then, he knew! His eyes popped open wide as the words appeared on his screen. He began swearing a blue streak, and I imagine those words began appearing on the screen, as well.
Dan slammed the iPad face-down on the table.
"That's torn it!" he shouted. "You've really done it now, haven't you, Missy?"
"Take it easy," I told him, as a blush came over my face. "I think I have a way that we can both be happy."
© 2014 by Kaleigh Way
He paused a moment, considering, then said, "I hope you don't mind if I make a personal observation."
"Not at all," I said. "I'd appreciate it."
"What you're doing is quite brave. Most people wouldn't have the nerve or the courage.
It's incredibly hopeful, but at the same time, it's immensely sad."
The alien attorney didn't look alien at all. He was about six feet tall, medium build. Judging from his hairline and face, he'd just turned fifty, but a good fifty. He was quite fit, had a ready smile, but you could see he was quite serious and professional. It took me a few minutes to figure out exactly who he reminded me of: if you can imagine the actor Ralph Fiennes with light brown hair, all combed straight back, then you have a pretty accurate picture of the man.
He introduced himself as Alan.
The two of us sat in a small meeting room, very much like any meeting room on Earth: There was a whiteboard mounted on the wall. A small, round table and four chairs took up most of the space. The only decoration was a tall bamboo plant in the corner. I had to wondered whether the phone on the table was only a prop, but I didn't care enough to ask.
"You're certainly right about the conflict of interest," Alan said, "and I apologize. We've worked with Dan for many years in different capacities, and until now he's always been professional and respectful. We've never had an incident like this before." His mouth twisted to the side. "I have to confess that it's partially our fault: we've never had liquor aboard before. Clearly that was a mistake. Still: in vino veritas: there's a character issue that needs to be addressed, but frankly there's not much point in pursuing a disciplinary action now. He'd forget everything, just as you will. However, the issue will NOT be forgotten. We'll put together your statement, his garbled transmissions to me, and the statement of the ship's doctor about Dan's current state of inebriation. At this moment, the captain and the ship's counselor are conducting a recorded interview with Dan, and that will become, as they say on Earth, a part of his permanent record. We'll show him all that material and have a serious discussion with him after this mission is over.
"Also, the captain has asked me to tell you that we're going to seriously reconsider our policy on alcohol."
I thanked him and half-joked, "Maybe all you need is a good bartender."
He chuckled politely, then changed the subject. "As far as your idea is concerned... your solution to the current situation... it's highly irregular, but it's also quite clever and creative. I'd even go so far as to say it's ingenious.
"At the same time, however, it's pretty cruel, don't you think?"
I sighed. "Yes, I guess so. But I think it gives everyone what they want."
He looked at my face in silence for a few moments, then asked, "Are you going to tell your family?"
"No," I replied. "It would only make the current situation worse, and in the end none of us would remember. The only thing I'd like to do is say goodbye to my daughter before we disappear."
"I'll have someone bring her to you," he told me, and looked for a moment at his iPad. "Someone's escorting her now," he told me. He paused a moment, considering, then said, "I hope you don't mind if I make a personal observation."
"Not at all," I said. "I'd appreciate it."
"What you're doing is quite brave. Most people wouldn't have the nerve or the courage. It's incredibly hopeful, but at the same time, it's immensely sad."
I choked up a little, and had to dry my eyes.
"I'm going to do some last minute verifications and some, uh, what you'd call paperwork, and then we should be good to go."
"Okay," I said. I sniffed and wiped my nose.
He rose to leave, then said, "One last thing: are you sure you want to get in the same lifeboat as Dan?"
I chuckled. "Yeah, I am. It will make me feel like Mother Teresa." He frowned, not understanding. I waved my hand to say never mind. "It's fine," I told him. "Yes, I'll go with him. Besides, we'll only have a few minutes and then oblivion, right?"
He nodded. "Minutes at most. We'll jettison the lifeboats and immediately start peeling into the past."
"Not to jinx it — but if something goes wrong—"
"I understand," he told me. "You're hedging your bet. If we blow up or miscalculate and the mission can't complete, you'll still be Dexie. You'll end up in Texas. And Dan's not a bad man."
"Except when he drinks?"
"Apparently so." He shrugged and gave a rueful smile.
"Okay," I told him. "Once I say goodbye to Carla, I'm ready."
Carla gave me a suspicious look. "You're not coming in the lifeboat with me and Mom?"
"No," I told her. "I don't want to spoil her last moments here."
"It won't matter," Carla countered. "None of us will remember."
"Still, I never fought with your mother, and I don't want to fight with her now."
"What do you mean, you never fought? You guys did fight," Carla told me. "You fought a lot. I remember it, all my life."
"No." I told her. She rolled her eyes. "Well, okay, sure. I admit, we did fight — or argue, but we always made up after."
"Does that make it okay?" she asked. "You still fought with each other."
"Yes, I think it does make it okay. People can't live so close together and never disagree. And sometimes the other person doesn't understand when something really matters to you. So it can get emotional."
Carla sighed.
"Look," I said. "I didn't really want to talk about this. Your mother and I had a good life together. I just wanted to say goodbye to you before we all go."
She gave me another look, all at once suspicious, doubtful, and puzzled. "What's going on?" she asked. "You know it won't make any difference. After they let us go, we'll all disappear and none of us will remember anything. You'll won't know that you were Dexie, and neither will we."
"Right," I said. "Unless something goes wrong. You know, if something happens to this ship, we'll float down to Earth and everything will stay the way it is now."
"Why would something go wrong with the ship?" she asked.
"You never know," I told her, in a frustrated tone. We lapsed into silence for a few moments. I struggled with myself for a moment, then said, "Carla, can I ask you something? When I left, after I drove to Seattle, did you and your mother miss me? Did you mind not having your father around?"
She looked down at the table and rubbed the surface with her right hand. She watched her hand moving back and forth for a moment, then said, "We missed you from the moment you turned into Dexie. And I missed Dexie, too. I told you this. It was like you were both gone. I told you that already.
"But you know something? Mom was mad at you for being happy... that you were happy to be Dexie... but SHE was happy, too. She was younger and healthier and her eyes were healed, and when she wasn't angry, she was on a cloud.
"For me, it wasn't so different. When they fixed my epilepsy, I didn't feel any different. It was you two who changed. You both got new lives, but I still felt the same. I STILL feel the same. So, it's weird. That's the word. It was weird that you were dead. ‘Cause that's what it was like: it was like you were dead, but you were still talking to us. I didn't like it."
"Okay," I said. I searched for something wise, or at least sentimental, to say, but I came up empty. The awkward moment was broken by a knock on the door. Alan (the alien attorney) knocked again and said, "It's time to get in the lifeboats."
A female crewmember led Carla down the hall to the left. Alan walked me to an elevator. Once the doors closed us inside, he asked, "Any second thoughts?"
"No," I said. "I thought that talking to Carla might make me..." I couldn't finish the sentence. After opening and closing my mouth a few times, I heaved a deep, heavy sigh and told him, "I'm glad I won't remember any of this. You're right, Alan: it's sad. It's immensely sad."
"At least nobody dies this time around," he offered.
"Don't they?" I asked.
The lifeboat was a long, rectangular box — at least that's what it looked like on the inside. There were six rows of six seats, with an aisle up the middle. There were windows all around, and the general effect was that of a tour boat or shuttle bus.
"It must be expensive, dumping two of these things," I observed.
"It is," Alan said, "but it's nothing compared to the cost of generating the energy we need to travel in time. This is one reason we don't do this sort of thing very often."
I shook his hand. He wished me luck. After I climbed inside the lifeboat, he closed the door behind me. Dan was sitting in the third row from the front, in the middle on the left.
"I saved you a window seat," he joked, "before they were all taken." I climbed over him and sat down. His face had a chastened look. "I'm sorry," he began. "I've behaved very badly—"
I interrupted him by squeezing his hand and saying, "Don't waste your last moments in regret."
"Thanks," he replied, and he sounded quite sincere. "So... what did you decide to do? Are you going back to being Fred? Obviously — unless something goes badly wrong up there — you're not coming to Texas with me."
"No," I acknowledged. "I had a funny, scary idea..."
"... and you don't want to tell me." He finished my sentence.
"Do you mind?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "If this boat lands in Texas, will you tell me then?" I smiled and nodded. "Fair enough," he said, and settled back into his seat. "In a couple of moments I never would have heard you anyway."
Suddenly the image of Arrow's car popped into my mind. "Dan!" I exclaimed. "I just remembered: the car I was driving is parked in the ship! What's going to happen to it?"
He chuckled. "Was it a nice car?"
"A Porsche Boxster. And it isn't mine."
"Looks like it's going to stay on the ship. Once they go back in time, it'll be extra, you know what I mean? Because whoever lent you that car will never lend it to you. So, no loss there. It'll end up in a library or the court records or something like that."
When he said records, another picture came to mind: the black-and-white composition book that Lizzie gave me, the one with Dexie's family history. "There's a book in that car."
"A library book?" he grinned.
"No, notes about Dexie's family history. I wanted to give it to her!"
"You can't. You couldn't. They wouldn't have let you. It's strictly illegal. Besides... think about this: How did you get it?"
"Her mother dictated it to me."
"Ahhh," he said. "Then it's a very good thing that you can't give it to her."
"Why?"
"Because if you did, her mother wouldn't need to tell her. You'd be giving her information, but you'd also be robbing her of an experience."
He was right. I pictured that day in the hotel room: Lizzie in her bed, her golden-red curls spilling over her shoulders, her sweet, enchanting voice telling the stories of her ancestors. The experience reconciled me to Lizzie. It made me love her. Remembering that, feeling that, I could see how wrong it would be to rob Dexie of it.
"Oh!" I cried, remembering one more thing: Arrow's engagement ring. That, too, I'd dleft behind on the ship, but I longed to look once more into the tiny perfect world of that diamond.
Just then the airlock opened and the black emptiness of space appeared in front of us. A soft voice warned: Attention: prepare for lifeboat release. Please take your seats and fasten your safety belts. Dan and I pulled the belts across and pressed them into the clips. "Just like an airline on Earth," I remarked.
"Yeah, just like," he agreed. "It's even got tray tables," he observed, tapping the back of the seat in front of him.
The soft voice continued: Lifeboat release. Good luck and godspeed.
"Do aliens say that?" I asked Dan.
He shrugged. "Apparently so."
I found myself gripping his hand as our lifeboat slid away. There was literally nothing underneath us. Nothing to hold us up, I meant. The Earth was down there, big and blue. The feeling I got... it was similar to the moment before a rollercoaster crests the hill. I found I was holding my breath and pushing myself up by my tiptoes.
"It's powerful, isn't it?" Dan said in a quiet voice. I didn't answer. As the lifeboat drifted forward, the sun broke around the side of the ship. Its rays were blinding bright, like a beacon into another world.
They say that just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Twice I've been at that doorstep, in situations where I thought I was about to die. I didn't see my life. Neither time. Each time, what I saw was my family. My last thought, if it had been my last thought, was to wonder if they would be okay without me. After the past two weeks as Dexie, I had a pretty good idea of the answer. They'd be okay. They would even be good. It would be "weird" (to use Carla's word), but they'd be fine.
It would be sad, of course. They would mourn and hurt. I was sure of that. Death is an inexplicable rupture in the fabric of reality. It's always wrong: the wrong person, the wrong time; your mind can't comprehend it. There's no explanation or justification. Death is the most unreal thing in the universe. When it comes, it knocks you off the rails.
This time, knowing for sure that the end was near, I found that I didn't think about my family. Oddly, I found myself thinking about the Bremerton ferry. Probably I was reminded of it by the big windows, and by the intensely bright sun. I thought about Seattle, and the day I had there... starting with the library and ending with Arrow and his little, girly backpack.
I laughed out loud, which made Dan look at me. His face was shining. Alan was right: Dan wasn't a bad man. I wondered whether the alien doctor had given him something to sober him up. Probably.
Then I remembered the middle part of that day in Seattle: meeting Diane at the Crumpet Shop. How we talked about being adopted... how the woman behind the counter thought we were sisters...
That's when it hit me. How stupid could I be? Why didn't I see it sooner? Could Diane be my half-sister? Desiree had given up a daughter my age. If Sam McCloud was her father, we'd be half-sisters. That would explain the "family resemblance."
"Oh, hell," I grumbled. Dan laughed and said, "Too late for regrets: I think they're starting to peel back—"
... and Dan, the lifeboat, the spaceship, the Earth and the Sun... even the eerie black background of space, all faded slowly into white, fuzzy static, like an old TV. Then, like an old TV, it blipped into a tiny black dot.
Then, nothing.
Not even me.
Everything in the car was peaceful and fine and quiet for a spell, and then the lights came back. Dexie freaked out.
"No! No! NO!" she shouted.
"Just stay calm, Dexie," I said, putting my hands on her shoulders.
"I can't stay calm! Those damn lights are BACK!"
"Okay. Okay. Don't worry about being calm, then. Just drive slowly. Drive slowly in a straight line and they'll get bored. Once they get bored, they'll fly away."
I felt her take two deep breaths, and she kept a good constant speed. I was about to suggest that she set the cruise control, when something happened.
"He got closer!" Dexie shouted. "He's right on my tail!"
"Keep driving slowly," I repeated in a low, slow voice. "Just keep it even, keep it steady. We have to bore them, Dexie. We have to be slow and uninteresting."
My hands were still on her shoulders, and I kept them there. She shifted in her seat and glanced into the mirror. Under my left hand, I felt her pulse racing.
"Deep breaths, Dexie, deep breaths."
She tried to follow my suggestion, but broke off suddenly to swear and cry out in a high-pitched whine. "He's even closer, Mr. Holderlin!" she hissed. "He's on the rear wind— windshield!"
A cold chill shot through me and every hair on my body stood erect. I shot a lightning glance behind me — any more would have been blinding. Dexie was right: the lights were practically touching the rear windshield. Just another micron more and they'd be tapping on the glass. A centimeter more, and they'd be breaking through.
My heart was pounding. Kristy Anne squeezed my right upper arm in a viselike grip. It hurt, but I didn't care. At least it was something I knew for sure was real. In the front seat, Carla was praying out loud. I didn't know she prayed.
Dexie said, "I'm losing it, Mr. Holderlin! I'm losing it! I can't do this! I can't! I can't take the pressure!"
Just then, one of those damned black dots appeared. I saw it from the corner of my right eye, superimposed on the red lights behind us.
"No, no, not now!" I growled. It can't happen now! I told myself in desperation. My family needs me. Dexie needs me. I have to hang on!
"I'm sorry," Dexie whimpered, like a struck dog. It suddenly realized: she thought I was growling at her.
"No, Dexie, no," I said, in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. From behind me, up my back and over my shoulders, crept the sensation of the soft black wool enfolding me, wrapping itself around me. "NO!" I shouted. I would NOT give in! I would not go under.
Unfortunately, my last shouted NO! shot through Dexie like a death knell. In a panic of disappointment, fear, and an overwhelming sense of failure, she slammed her foot down hard on the gas, and never let up. The car jumped at the sudden acceleration and flew down the road.
Like a bat out of hell, I thought. For once, the phrase seemed appropriate.
But I couldn't talk. I hadn't lost consciousness yet, but it was a battle. I gripped Dexie's backrest and squeezed with all my might. I held my breath as long as I could. I tightened every muscle in my body and clenched my teeth down hard on my tongue. Anything to stay awake, anything to stay in the moment.
At first, after Dexie's sudden acceleration, the lights stayed far behind. Then they came zooming up that long, flat road, moving at an impossible, silent, effortless speed.
Up ahead, at right angles to the highway, there was a road — it turned out to be an old packed-dirt road that cut through the fields and disappeared into a copse of trees.
"I'm taking that turn!" Dexie cried, and hit the brakes hard.
The car went into a spin, and another, and another. After the third spin, by some crazy instinct Dexie righted the wheel and we found ourselves looking straight down the dirt road.
She hit the gas again, hard.
I was still struggling to keep conscious, but I was sinking. The darkness was slow but inexorable. Tears formed in my eyes but refused to fall. I felt the car fishtailing; the road must be dusty. Dexie, a city girl, would never expect that. She fought with the wheel, thrashing it back and forth, never slowing down.
With my last moments of awareness, I watched a tree appear before us and grow and grow and grow until it was so big that... Oh! Just before the impact I suddenly recalled... I hadn't fastened my safety belt.
© 2014 by Kaleigh Way
"Yes," he replied. "You saw the video where you explained everything."
"No," I retorted. "That wasn't me. It was Dexie."
"Again," he reminded me, "It was you as Dexie. This isn't the first go-around for you."
When I woke, I was lying on a bed in a clean, quiet room. Even without opening my eyes I knew it was a hospital: It wasn't just the hospital gown, or the peculiar hospital-clean feel of the sheets and bed. There was a hospital quality to the silence in the background, as if someone had shushed the air conditioner.
To my great surprise, I felt fine. Good, even. Nothing like the banged-up, cut and bruised mess I expected to be. Since I wasn't wearing a seat belt, the crash must have tossed me around like a rag doll. Like a rag doll stuffed with chicken bones.
And yet, I didn't feel any bandages on my skin. The sheets and the gown lay smooth against my skin. I didn't feel any cuts or scrapes or bruises anywhere. Wow, was I lucky! I wiggled my fingers and toes experimentally. They still worked. My arms seemed heavy, and so were my legs. It's just because I'm sleepy, I thought.
Footsteps approached. I opened my eyes, blinking, and without waiting to see who it was, I asked, "How is my family? My wife and daughter? And Dexie, the girl who was driving?"
"They're fine," the man replied. "Everybody's fine; they all walked away without a scratch. YOU were the only one who got banged up. Would you care to guess why that is?"
"I wasn't wearing my seat belt," I admitted sheepishly.
"That's right, you weren't. You flew, do you remember that? Your body shot through the air."
"No," I said. "Where did I fly to? I think I must have gone to Never-Never-Land."
"Not quite," the man replied. "You went through the windshield and smack! into the tree. Do you remember the tree?"
"I remember the tree," I told him, "but I don't remember hitting it. Or going through the windshield." I moaned softly; a waking-up moan. "But I don't understand: why aren't I all banged up? You said I was banged up, but I can feel that I'm not. I feel fine. I feel good. Am I drugged or something? Have I been out a long time?" With that question, a vein of panic began to rise inside me: could I have been in coma? Long enough for my wounds to heal? Would that be months? Years?
My fears were allayed by the man's answer.
"No, you haven't been out very long. This is still today, the day of the accident. You were unconscious after the collision. You were unconscious when they carried you in. The crash took place a half an hour ago. The doctor fixed you up, and gave you something to calm you down," the man explained. "It's not meant to make you sleep. Or take away pain. It's going to wear off. Soon."
"Ah, so that's why I'm slurring my words. Slurrrring. It's like being drunk with a clear head. But I'm fine, right? I'm fine, as far as I can tell."
"Yes," he agreed. "The doctor gave you a clean bill of health, but what's important is how you feel."
"Umm," I murmured, closing my eyes again. "I'm still foggy from waking up, but that's all. Can I see my family? Can they come in?"
"Soon. Very soon. You can go see them as soon as you're able to get up a head of steam. Today, in a couple of hours."
I turned my head and looked the man up and down. "You're not a doctor," I said. "You don't have a white coat or a stethoscope."
"Very observant."
"You sound like you're from Texas. Am I right?"
"Yes, I'm Dan. I'm from West Texas."
"Are you a lawyer?"
"Guilty as charged!"
"Who do you represent? The insurance company?"
"No. I'm representing you, your family, and Dexie Lane. I was appointed by the insurance company, but you're my clients. I'm here to make sure you're okay. That's my only job. How much do you remember about what happened?"
"Everything up to the crash," I told him. I licked my lips. They were very dry. "Could you give me some water?" He lifted a cup toward my face and maneuvered the straw into my mouth. I pulled three sips of the cold, sweet water and swallowed gratefully.
"You remember the car hitting the tree," Dan prompted.
"Yes," I agreed.
"Do you remember why you hit the tree? How it all happened?" he asked.
I opened my eyes to look at his face. He looked like an intelligent, open-minded guy, but still...
"You wouldn't believe it."
"Try me."
Okay. I decided to tell him. If he didn't believe me, I'd say I was disoriented. "A flying saucer was chasing us."
He nodded and smiled. "Good," he said. "That's correct. Do you know where we are right now?"
"In a hospital?"
"Sort of." He waited, smiling, watching my face to see how long it would take for me to get it.
My jaw fell. "Are we on the saucer now?"
"Bingo!"
After the shock of learning that we were on an alien spaceship, I pretty much woke up. All the way. No need for coffee. I was awake.
You'd think that after you've been chased by a spaceship, crashed into a tree, and woke up without a scratch onboard the spaceship, you've pretty much exhausted your capacity for surprise.
But after all that, finding out that I was now younger, smaller, and FEMALE... that took the cake. I was beyond astonishment, well into disbelief. The what... the why... the what the hell?
Dan, the lawyer from Texas, and Alan, a lawyer from space, took turns explaining to me that the collision had damaged my body beyond repair, — even beyond the ability of alien technology. The only way to save me was to pop me into a spare dead body.
I say that they took turns explaining because I kept asking the same questions over and over.
Then, when I'd gotten a preliminary grasp of my new situation, they sprang yet another surprise on me: a video in which Dexie assured me that this was all my idea.
"Two weeks from now I decided to be reborn as an alien woman?" I asked. "Is that the idea?"
The men assured me that it was. I shook my head. Inconceivable was a mild word for it.
"And in this video, Dexie is supposed to be me?"
We went through that conversational loop three times. While watching the video for the third time, I had enough and asked them to stop.
"There's one thing I don't understand," I told them. "If that—" I pointed to Dexie "—is really me, there's something wrong. I mean, it never occurs to this girl that I would have troubling believing that she is me. If that really was me, that's the FIRST question I'd deal with. All I see is Dexie, assuring me that this—" I made a sweeping motion to indicate my new body "—is how I wanted and decided that everything should end up."
I gesticulated with inarticulate frustration. "Beyond that, this person's manner is so different from Dexie's, I can hardly believe it's her, either."
My outburst stumped the two of them. I stood up and excused myself. I needed a break, but I also needed the bathroom. I opened two wrong doors before I found the right one, and when I finally got inside, I turned the lock and tried the door to be sure it wouldn't open.
For a moment I leaned on the sink and studied my face in the mirror. It wasn't a bad face. In fact, I liked this face. It didn't look like anyone I knew, but it was a friendly, honest face, with a small symmetric smile. The eyes were a funny mix of colors that people end up calling hazel. The person who wore this face before me was clearly a good person, a person who worked hard and had good attitudes. She had a ready smile, an unwrinkled brow, small ears and a nice little nose. I was intrigued by the hair, which was red. Not red-gold like Dexie's, though: It was a darker red, almost brown.
I needed to use the toilet, and on a sudden impulse, I took off all my clothes. After relieving myself, I returned, naked, to the mirror and studied my new body. It was still hard to believe that this was me, but now that I could touch it, feel it, and look at it from many angles, I was convinced that it was my new earthly vehicle.
"Earthly", I thought, but not of this earth.
"I come in peace," I told my face in the mirror. "Take me to your leader." Then I laughed, and marveled to see my new female bits jiggle and shake. I weighed my breasts in my hands, and felt my butt cheeks. "Firm, yet soft," I concluded. "Soft, yet firm."
My new body was in good shape. She was just past thirty, which is a wonderful age, and had the lean, long look of a runner. She didn't have any wrinkles or scars, and her curves and proportions were good. I'd certainly traded up.
I must have stood there for a long time, turning and exploring and studying my new self, because Dan came to knock at the door, and after clearing his throat nervously, asked, "Are you all right in there?"
Later, that same day, the saucer landed in a field off Route 20 in Northern California. I walked down the ramp and found Dan standing next to a shiny new Dodge Challenger.
"Is this your car?" I asked as he opened the passenger door for me.
"No, ma'am," he replied. "This is a rental. I'm pretty far from home. I had to fly up here to meet you. And if you don't mind my saying, it's a pleasure to see you again."
"You just saw me," I objected. "Not five minutes ago."
Dan laughed. "For you, it happened five minutes ago. For me, it's been a very busy two busy weeks." He gently closed the passenger door and trotted around to the driver's side. As Dan started the car and drove back to Route 20, the spaceship quietly lifted off.
I shook my head. "This whole thing is crazy, in every detail."
"Time travel does take some getting used to," Dan agreed. "After I left you in the sickbay, I flew back home to Texas and returned to my normal, prosaic, very Earthly job. Two weeks later, I caught a flight to Sacramento, rented a car, and here I am!"
"Why didn't you just stay on the ship?" I asked. "And why did I have to go to the future?"
"I couldn't make that jump," Dan explained. "If I stayed on the ship, I'd be missing from Earth for two weeks. I can't just disappear like that. It would kill my business.
"As for you, you needed to stay on the ship so you could return to what ought to be your present. This isn't really the future for you. Remember, the body you're in is from someone who died in an accident somewhere in space. She died a few days ago, so you needed to come back here and now for continuity's sake.
"The real reason, though, is that the ship and everyone in it had to return to its own time — and that time is now. They couldn't very well leave you behind all by yourself."
Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of my house, Fred Holderlin's house. Dan killed the engine and turned toward me. "Nervous?" he asked.
"Very," I said. "Look at me: I'm trembling. This is the spookiest thing I've ever done. It's like the Twilight Zone, except that it's real. Are you sure this was my idea?"
"Yes," he replied. "You saw the video where you explained everything."
"No," I retorted. "That wasn't me. It was Dexie."
"Again," he reminded me, "It was you as Dexie. This isn't the first go-around for you."
I grimaced in frustration and clenched my fists, which felt about half as large as they were supposed to be. I opened my eyes and looked down at my breasts. "So: I've gone from nearly dying, to being a girl, to really dying, to being a girl."
"In a word, yes," Dan answered. "But why not take it simply? Forget the whole business of deciding in the future and your being Dexie. Don't even consider that; don't give it a thought. The fact is, you would have died for good and forever in that crash if this body wasn't available. Your only hope of survival was to be transferred into Phoebe's body."
"Phoebe," I repeated. Such an unlikely name. "And Phoebe was an alien?"
"Yes," he told me for the umpteenth time. "An alien, but one who is just as human as you."
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
"Can I ask you something?" Dan said, blushing a little as he asked. "When you were Fred, did you have a thing for red hair?"
"No, why?"
"Well, because as Dexie, you were a redhead, and now you're a redhead... I had to wonder."
"What is there to wonder at? It's just coincidence. How could it be anything else?"
"I dunno," Dan said, and for some reason, he heaved a heavy sigh. Then, startled, he looked down at my hands.
I didn't realize I was doing it, but as I sat there, I was wringing my hands, hard.
"Hey, now!" Dan said in a gentle voice. "You're squeezing the life out of those poor little fingers!"
Startled, I stopped, and pressed my palms flat against my thighs to keep them still. My fingers actually hurt! "I didn't know I was doing it," I muttered. "Sorry!"
"Don't be sorry," Dan said. "You've been through some strange, unimaginable things." He paused. "You know, there's another thing I keep forgetting to ask you: Do you mind the fact that you're a woman now?"
"Um, no, I don't," I told him. "It seems... um... interesting. I'm sure it will hold some challenges, but I think it will be fun. At least, I hope so. Now, I'm really a new person. Being a woman is the most different thing from who I was before. And yet, it just seems normal, somehow... now that I'm... in here. In this body. So, my answer is no, I don't mind at all. I think I like it, in fact."
I thought for a moment. "If you'd asked me if I wanted to be a woman, back when I was Fred, I would have said no. I'm sure. But sitting here, being a woman, it's just like, okay, this is me now. It's like I was born this way. It's not bad. In fact, it's good. So, yeah, I like it."
"Okay, good," Dan replied. I had the feeling I hadn't given the answer he was looking for, and he seemed a little impatient. He scratched his head, then glanced at his watch. "Okay. Listen, now: I've got to go inside the house. I have to see your family, see Dexie. Make sure they're good. If you're not ready to come along, you can wait in the car. I promise, I'll be quick. All I have to do is make sure that everything is settled, so I can close this case. If you don't want to come in, and can't wait by yourself, I'll turn around and drive us back."
"No," I insisted. "I have to see them. There's no sense in putting it off."
"Good," he said, with obvious relief. "Just remember: you're Phoebe. You're an alien. You're here as an observer, to verify that they're okay. This is your first trip to Earth."
"Why are we saying that? That it's my first trip to Earth?"
"Because it's an easy excuse in case you do or say anything strange, or if you seem uneasy or awkward."
"Uneasy and awkward," I repeated. "That's my motto for the day." I took a breath and smiled at him. Okay, Dan. Let's do it."
As we approached the front door, I put my hand on his arm. He stopped. "Hey, Dan — what is the story about this name, Phoebe? Are there really alien women named Phoebe?"
"No, not really," he replied. "It's just the closest Earth equivalent."
"Okay," I said and let go of his arm. He reached out and rang the front doorbell.
"Please, call me Kristy," Kristy Anne was saying. "Kristy Anne is way too long. It makes me sound like a little girl."
I was struck by how young and beautiful Kristy had become. With the disappearance of her wrinkles and gray hair, and the complete restoration of the body tone she'd lost with age... to say nothing of the energy and confidence she now had... I was astonished. I wasn't quite sure, but her breasts seemed bigger. Not by much, but still...
It was like seeing the Kristy Anne I met so long ago. If I were still Fred Holderlin, and met her now for the first time, I would fall in love with her today.
She'd also lost the long-suffering aspect I'd grown accustomed to. And her face... I never realized how her expression always registered pain, as if a never-ending headache had its home in the back of her head. Not any more. Kristy was light and full of life. Clearly age had been a burden to her, and that burden had been lifted.
In the same way, Dexie's appearance and behavior were a complete contrast to the girl she used to be. She smiled! She held her head high (literally), and her posture was better. She gone from a gray, downward-looking, nonexistent shadow to a likeable and engaging young woman. Her manner was light, sunny, and open. And, she was talkative. Boy, was she talkative!
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "You've got red hair, like me! I didn't know people in space could have red hair. Maybe we're kindred spirits, like Anne of Green Gables! Do you know that book? Oh! Do you know about books?"
"Yes, we have books," I assured her, "and I do know that one."
"Wow!" Dexie exclaimed.
"Have you made your trip to Spokane yet?" I asked her.
"No," she replied. "I've stayed behind to help Mrs. Holderlin and Carla. Besides, my mother was sick and I couldn't get in touch with her. She only called me yesterday to tell me that she's better. I'm going to see her next week."
"Good," I said, nodding.
"Are you really from space?" Dexie asked me. When I assured her I was indeed an alien, she asked, "How old are you?"
"I'm, uh, 31," I replied. I wasn't quite sure. Dan threw in the phrase, "in Earth years," as if that somehow helped. I guess it covered my confusion.
Carla, unlike the other two, seemed unchanged: she was her usual calm, positive self. It wasn't hard to see the vein of sadness there, a kind of wound that she and Kristy wore... but on the whole they both looked good. Better than good. They were sorry about Fred's death, and deeply hurt, but they were hopeful for the future. They were going to make things work.
It felt weird and uncomfortable, to stand there and deceive them, pretending to be a stranger. At the same time, I felt like an intruder. I felt displaced. And I felt like a jerk and heel; a man who abandoned his family. Still, all the work and planning I'd done throughout my life obviously paid off: I hadn't left a mess. I provided for my family. They didn't need to worry. They were going to be fine. I felt proud and relieved.
... and of course, immensely sad.
"Where are you from?" Dexie asked me.
"Schenectady," I answered without thinking.
Kristy dropped the spoon she was holding. "My God!" she exclaimed. "My husband was from Schenectady!"
"What a coincidence!" Dexie cried. "Is there really a planet called Schenectady?"
Dan avoided my eye, but I managed to find my own cover: "No, not exactly," I replied. "It's just that the word Schenectady is the closest Earth equivalent to how we say it."
"And how do you say it?"
"Schenectady," I said, feeling rather stupid.
"It sounds the same to me," Dexie observed.
We didn't stay much longer after that gaffe. Dan made some excuses, handed out his business cards, and the two of us got back on the road, driving west. Twenty minutes later, Dan pulled into a field. The spaceship descended and opened its ramp.
"There's your ride," Dan said. "It's been nice knowing you."
"Yes, thanks for taking me out there," I said, feeling quite uncertain and vulnerable. "And thanks for... all the rest."
He shrugged amiably, then jumped out so he could open my door.
"Hey," he called to me softly. "In case it ever matters... I've been sober for two weeks now."
"Congratulations," I told him.
"Thanks," he said. "And thank you for the gift." He fixed his eyes on my face. "It inspires me..."
He waited for my reaction, and seeing none, he added, "...and puzzles me."
He waited a little longer, then gave up and ended with, "So thank you."
"Sure thing," I replied, although I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
He took a step back and seemed to fold up into himself. He gestured to the ramp and said, "You'd better go." He took another step backward and stood there with a... lost expression on his face. He seemed forlorn, like a child who'd been left behind. Like the one kid who didn't get any candy. I couldn't help but feel sad and sorry for him.
On impulse, I took two steps toward him, put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. I figured, I'm a girl now. Why not? He looks like he needs it.
He looked startled, then pleased, and then a grin broke across his face.
"I'm not worthy!" he joked, then ran off to jump into his car. He drove away, waving and honking, trailing a billow of red dust. I ran into the ship before the dusty cloud overtook me.
"How long have you been standing at that window?" a man asked me.
I shrugged. "A couple of minutes," I replied. "I'm waiting for the, uh—" and gestured to the door behind me.
"The view — or the absence of a view — isn't going to change," he said. "We're in deep space. It's going to be hours before there's anything to see."
"That's okay," I told him. "It's my first flight. I've never seen such total blackness before."
"Total blackness?" he repeated. "Total boredom! But... to each his own," he quipped, rolling his eyes a little. Then, thankfully, he left. The door behind me opened, and a woman, my therapist/counselor, gestured me inside.
"I must have to apologize," she told me, "I am yet to master your language. We must have to make do as your saying goes. Am I right?"
"Yes," I told her. "And don't worry. Your English is just fine."
With a look of alarm, she said, "I was given to understand that I was learning American. Is it not?"
"American, English, they're really the same," I told her.
She gave me a dubious look. "I regret to inform you: my firm belief is that our linguists are likely to have better information on that point than you. Is it correct to say than you?"
"Yes, that's perfectly okay," I said, tacitly conceding the point. Honestly, I didn't care.
"Okay!" she repeated. "Awesome! These phrase-words are very American, is it not?"
"Oh, yes," I agreed.
"Awesome," she said again, obviously pleased with herself. "Now, have you achieved familiarity with your court records, in particular the recording in which you explain to yourself the current situation into which you are...," she paused, lost in her overlong sentence. After some thought, she found the way out: "...the current situation into which you find yourself? Is that correct? To say, you find yourself?"
"Yes, it's correct. And yes, I have seen the records and my recording. Many times."
"Have you evolved a summary feeling and/or an intellectual—" she paused and looked up, searching for the word "—comprehension of the said material?"
"Yes," I said, hoping it was the answer she was looking for.
"On the level of details, is there anything you would care to raise as a topic of intimate discussion?"
"There is one thing. I'd like to know more about Phoebe, the woman who gave me this body."
"That is perfectly out of the question," she responded. "It's both illegal and immoral."
"Immoral?" I repeated.
"Yes, I believe that is a common American word."
"It is a common American word," I agreed, "but I don't think it's appropriate."
"My point exactly," she agreed.
"No. I mean, I should be able to know about her life. She gave her life for me."
"I am literally at a loss for words," the woman told me. "What engendered this feeling in you?"
"I've watched the video of me-as-Dexie, over and over, and one thing that she, or I, insist upon is that this life that I've been given, Phoebe's life, is not a tabula rasa—"
The therapist interrupted by crying, "Wait! Wait!" She whispered the words taboul eraser into her pad. "Hmm," she said, in a critical tone, "I do not believe that taboo espasser is a word at all."
"I mean blank slate," I offered, as an alternative.
She whispered that (correctly) into her pad, and frowning, read, "Hollow stone; ghee-oh-dee."
"What?" I exclaimed.
"Geode," Alan explained. "She was trying to say geode. It's an interesting accidental image."
"Why would she say that word?" I asked him.
"She was trying to understand," Alan replied. "In any case, she was correct: you don't have the right to know anything about Phoebe, aside from general information, on the level of public records. Her life, her apartment, her belongings, her bank account — don't come to you. It all goes to her estate. In this case, her family."
"I don't want any of that!" I told him, shocked that he would think so.
He handed me a folder containing a dozen or so printed sheets. "This is what you can know: her medical history, birthdate, planet and city of origin, and general facts about her life. You will be assigned new identity information, including a new name, which is something you might want to decide for yourself. You can't keep her name, and I assume you don't want to be called Fred or Dexie."
"I haven't thought about it," I told him. "I'll come up with something. But what about her family? Her friends? Was she married?"
"She was engaged to be married," Alan told me, "but you have to understand that all of that is over. You have no obligations toward Phoebe's family or friends. This isn't just a point of law; it's part of our cultural norms. If you did try to contact her family or her intended husband, it would be taken as a breach of propriety. They would be horrified."
"Don't you think that some of them, one of them, like a parent or grandparent, would want to see Phoebe at some point?"
"It may happen," Alan conceded, "but the expectation would be for you to refuse."
"Can I put myself down as being open to it?" I asked him.
"If you like," he replied. "I can draw up a declaration for you to sign. It's not without precedent."
"Good," I said. "It just something that me-as-Dexie particularly insisted on."
"Fine," he agreed.
"So, what happens to me now?" I asked.
"For the next two years, you'll be obliged to stay onboard here. It's the crew's mandate. You'll get some schooling in our language, culture, and history, as well as training in some of the simpler duties on the ship here.
"Since this ship is one of the few equipped for time travel, you may end up being part of a mission to the past, but those are few and far between.
"Ultimately, unless you elect some other viable opportunity, you'll be brought back to Phoebe's planet of origin, where you'll be given an allowance, public housing, and access to educational opportunities. It's a nice planet. A little colder than you're used to, but a very pleasant planet nonetheless."
"It's not called Schenectady, by any chance, is it?" I asked with a smile.
"No," he replied, smiling back. "Not even close."
Back on Earth, an attorney who was sometimes known as Dan, walked in a small, dark bar in West Texas. He looked around, and finding no familiar faces, sat down at the bar. He had a surprise waiting. The bartender was not the pot-bellied, reformed biker that Dan had come to expect. Instead, the barkeep was a tall, attractive woman in her late twenties with long legs, dangerous curves, and short red hair.
Dan groaned.
She turned at the sound and said, "Wait. Don't tell me: you have a 'thing' for redheads."
"Yes, I do," he confessed, "but I will do my level best to not inflict myself upon you. I'm still wounded by the last one... or two... that got away."
"How'd they get away?" she joked. "You forgot to tie 'em up?"
"No," Dan replied, affecting a self-effacing tone, "One simply vanished, and the other literally climbed aboard a ship and sailed away forever."
"Very poetic," the barkeep commented, as she assessed him with a quick glance. "What are you drinking?"
"A tall glass of tonic water, please."
"Tonic water? What's that?"
"Make me a gin and tonic," he explained, "but leave out the gin."
"You got it!" she chirped, and quickly filled his glass. Then she moved down the bar away from him, wiping and cleaning and straightening up. She shoved warm bottles of beer into a cabinet filled with ice, and ran a rack of dirty glasses through the little dishwasher.
Dan, alone at the other end, extracted a tiny pouch from his hip pocket. The pouch was made of a soft cloth that felt expensive in itself. Inside the pouch was a diamond ring. Dan opened the pouch enough to see the ring shining, as it seemed, by its own light.
Also in the pouch, folded up small, was a note, written by Fred-as-Dexie. She'd passed it to Alan, the alien attorney, before she and Dan climbed into the lifeboat, before the aliens went peeling back in time to rescue the real and original Dexie.
Alan, after talking to Dan about alcohol, propriety, conflict of interest and the rest, handed the ring and the note to Dan. "Dexie wanted you to have this," he said.
Dan, after reading the note and examining the ring, exclaimed, "Why?"
Alan shrugged. "She didn't say."
Dan read the note for the forty-third time. The note never changed: it never got any clearer or made any more sense. What it said was this: Give this ring to someone worthy. Or keep it yourself. It was punctuated with a smiley face.
"Redheads!" Dan sighed. "They'll be the death of me."
© 2014 by Kaleigh Way