A Minority Of One : 1 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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Every new opinion, at its starting, is precisely in a minority of one. — Thomas Carlyle

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I groaned as I woke up. My head hurt and my mouth was as dry as sand.

“You’re finally awake!” a woman’s voice said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have the world’s worst hangover,” I replied. “Like somebody hit me with a steel beam and my head rolled down a long flight of stairs. Uhhh! Where am I?” I opened my eyes a crack, but only for a microsecond: the light pieced my brain like burning poison daggers.

“Could you turn the lights down?” I asked. “Why is it so fricking bright?”

“The lights are as low as they go,” the woman gently replied. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. You just woke up.”

My throat was so parched that it hurt to talk. My tongue was like sandpaper; it rubbed rough against my dry, chapped lips. I open my eyes for another quick moment, and caught a quick glance of the woman. She was a nurse. At least, she was dressed like a nurse.

I was lying on an exam table, with one of those ridiculous paper sheets underneath me. I was dressed in a hospital gown that came down to my knees and — thankfully — was closed in the back. I was covered by a thick, warm cotton blanket. The nurse put a cup of water in my hands. I took it like a blind person and drank it like I’d spent a month in the desert.

“You’re dehydrated,” she said. “Sorry about that. All the darts are the same strength, so you got a full adult dose. It put you out longer than the others, and it’s harder on your body.”

I drank, and liquid never felt so refreshing. It seemed to penetrate every part of me the instant I swallowed. She held my hand still and filled the cup twice more. I drained it each time. My headache dimmed a little, and the light was slightly easier to bear, but my head didn’t clear. It was cloudy inside my skull. Very cloudy. Even so, I couldn’t help but pick up on a number of things that jarred me. For one, we were in a room with no windows. I couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. I had no idea where we were. It didn’t appear to be a hospital, or even a doctor’s office. The walls were painted a bleak industrial green: the ugly non-color they use at military bases and government buildings. The color comes out of the bucket already dull and muted, and yet, after another quick look, I was ready to bet these walls were done back in the fifties.

“Do you think there’s lead in this paint?” I asked.

She looked surprised at my question, then gazed at the walls. She shrugged. “Yes, probably,”

“So, where am I?” I asked again. “And... you said darts — was I shot with a tranquilizer dart?” My memory was fuzzy, but I seemed to remember that much.

“Yes,” she replied, as if it were a perfectly normal occurrence. “Do you remember? Don’t worry if you can’t recall right now. It will all come back to you.”

“Another thing you said — you said that I got a full adult dose. Why did you say that? Am I not a full adult or something?” I chuckled mirthlessly. It wasn’t that funny, honestly.

“Speaking of that,” she said, side-stepping my question, “Can you verify your name and birthdate for me?”

“Leo Blisten,” I replied. “May 25, 1978.”

“Um, so… 42 years old.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Can you tell me what’s going on here? Like, where are we? Why was I shot with a tranquilizer dart? Who shot me? And again: WHY? Where are my friends? Were they shot as well?”

“They’re here, too. And yes, they were shot with darts as well. Somebody’s going to come and explain everything to you,” she replied. “I’m sorry, but that’s not my… um, but tell me, how much do you remember?”

“I was in my backyard,” I recalled. “Uhhh… is the tranquilizer still in my system? I feel pretty whoozy.”

“Yes, it will take several hours to completely work its way out of your system. You might even experience the effect into tomorrow evening. Don’t be surprised if you feel unusually calm and serene — that’s not a bad thing, right? — and you might have trouble focusing your attention. So, no driving or operating heavy machinery.” She laughed nervously at that, for some reason. “But don’t worry. It wears off soon enough. Drinking plenty of fluids will help, and don’t over-exert yourself.” She handed me a larger cup of water, which I took in sips.

She was right. My brain was packed full of fuzz and static, and I was aware of a certain disconnect… so I asked her, “I feel like I should be upset or angry, but I’m not. Is that the drug as well?”

“Yes. Didn’t I just tell you that? You’ll have to be careful for the next day or so. We’re going to keep you here for the night, and hopefully by the time you leave tomorrow you’ll be back to normal.” Then she coughed, as if the word normal caught in her throat.

“So, yeah,” I said, picking up the thread I’d dropped, “The last thing I remember… I was in my backyard. With my friends — my next-door neighbors.”

“Can you tell me your friends’ names?”

I hesitated. “Can I see my friends first?”

“You can see them in a little bit. As soon as you’re able.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, no, of course not. Not at all.”

“Where am I?’

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, okay… You have to — uh — I’m not here for… to… um.” She sighed heavily. “Just, um, just hang on. I’m going to call… someone… the person… who will explain everything to you.”

“Why can’t you explain?”

At that, she lost her patience. “Because it’s not my job!” she told me, in a voice full of frustration and irritation. She turned her back to me, picked up a phone, and in a low tone, as if she didn’t want me to hear, said, “Can you send someone to do the briefing? I’m getting peppered with questions here. Yes. Yes. Didn’t I just say? YES! Are you listening to me? Send… the person… right away!” She listened for a moment, then: “When I say ‘right away’ I mean RIGHT NOW, do you understand? ASAP! I don’t know how many ways I have to say it!” Then she abruptly hung up the phone, while the other person was still speaking.

When she turned to look at me again, her face was a little flushed. She was obviously trying to shake off her irritation. “How do you feel now?” she asked.

“I feel light,” I said. “Weirdly light.”

“Like you’re high?”

“No, like…” I laughed. “Ooh. My voice sounds light too. It’s like I just lost a hundred pounds or something. Isn’t that funny?” She smiled and laughed with me, polite laughter.

A moment later there came a knock at the door. The nurse opened it, and a thin, nasty looking man entered the room. He was dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved white dress shirt. He carried a tablet, which he was reading as he entered. He didn’t say a single word of greeting. He didn’t even nod hello. He simply glanced at me, at the tablet, then back and forth again. His eyebrows danced in what I took to be surprise.

Still, without acknowledging my presence, he turned his back to me and spoke with the nurse. I couldn’t hear his voice, but I heard the nurse say that she’d gotten “identity confirmation.” She also told him that I was still recovering from the tranqullizer dart, but didn’t need any other medical attention. He nodded, then gestured at the door with his head, and she left. It was all a bit rude. I was 80% sure that I didn’t like this guy.

He sat in a chair and pulled it close to the exam table I was lying on. “Hello there,” he said. “I’m a Special Agent with the FBI, and I’m here to explain things to you. You’re not under arrest; you’re not under suspicion. You haven't broken any law. So why are you here? I’ll tell you: The reason you’re here is because you were, unfortunately, caught up in a very complicated international case that’s extremely inconvenient for everyone concerned. That includes you. We’re going to clear up your part in this as quickly as possible so we can let you go. We’ll have to keep you overnight, but I promise that you’ll be out of here tomorrow, as early in the day as possible.”

I blinked and squinted.

“Does the light hurt your eyes?” he asked.

“A little, still,” I replied. “It’s passing.”

“Good.” He paused and looked at his tablet. “So… Leo, right?” He said it with this smirk, as if it were somehow funny. Now I was 90% sure I didn’t like him.

“Yeah,” I replied. “My name is Leo. Is that some kind of problem?”

He raised his eyebrows and made a face like he was biting his tongue.

“Look,” I said, “Can you please cut to the chase and tell me what the hell is going on here? I feel like I’m in some kind of guessing game.”

“Right,” he agreed. “You’re right. I will do exactly that, but first, can you tell me how much you remember? Then I’ll fill in the parts that you don’t know. It’ll be quicker that way.”

“Okay. So… I was in my backyard. I was… grilling some steaks. I was on my feet. I had a glass of wine in my hand. My wife was there, and another couple. They were sitting down, also drinking wine, eating appetizers…”

Again he glanced at his tablet. “Can you tell me your friends’ names? And your wife’s name?”

“Why?” I was getting suspicious.

“Just to confirm your memory.”

“The other couple was my friends Max and Meredith Shearpen. They live right next door. My wife’s name is Theresa Bliston.”

Again he smirked. I wanted to slap him, but I resisted the urge. It was more important to find out what was going on.

The agent asked, “And then what happened?”

“I was talking…” I said. As I spoke, the memory came drifting back, like a mist blowing in and taking shape. The picture grew clearer. I could almost feel and see it, as if it was happening now. “I was talking, and—” in my recollection, I could see her: the girl, crouching— “I realized there was this girl... on the other side of the gate. It was strange… like she was listening… like she was spying on us. It bugged me. It really rankled me. I set my glass down and took a step toward the gate. I remember… I wondered how long she’d been there, listening, wondered how much the girl had heard... when all of a sudden she stood up… straightened up. Like she didn't care at all about being caught. In fact, she opened the gate and walked right in.” I sniffed in disdain. The emotions were coming back along with the memory. "That really bugged me. So arrogant, like there was no problem with her eavesdropping or walking into my backyard uninvited." I shrugged. "She just walked in, like she owned the place."

“What did she look like?” the FBI man asked me, and his face was dancing, as if this was somehow funny. Again, I wanted to slap him, but — for the sake of getting this stupid interview over with, I went on with my story. Each detail pulled another.

“She was a kid, about thirteen or so. I remember thinking how skinny her legs were. She was wearing jeans, and her legs where like toothpicks. Her sneakers were this ugly orange color…" Now I could see her, in my mind's eye. "She was a skinny kid with black hair. I don’t know. I can’t remember much else.” For some reason, my heart started racing. The memory somehow seemed dangerous… or wrong, somehow. “I walked over to her. I was about to grab her by the arm, but she smiled and said she was looking for her dog…”

“She was looking for her dog?” he repeated.

“She said she was looking for her dog, but it sounded like a lie. And then what? Well anyway, there was no dog, anywhere. So it was total BS.” I paused, like I was watching a movie that I didn’t understand. My lips suddenly felt dry, so I licked them, and frowned, trying to remember. I took a sip of water and went on with my story. “So I grabbed her arm, and at that same moment, it was like somebody socked me in the gut. Like, really hard. It wasn't the girl, though; she didn’t hit me. She didn't even move. I didn’t see who or what it was, but I doubled over, like a steel fist out of nowhere got me right in the stomach.” I took a deep breath. What was happening to me? Why did this memory seem so disturbing? “After that, boom! There were people everywhere. People with guns, people yelling, people popping out of every corner. And all the guns were pointed directly at us... Ah! That’s when I was shot with a dart! Was that you guys?” Involuntarily I put my hand to my butt, where the dart had struck me.

“Yes, and on behalf of our team, I apologize. That was us. But in a moment you’ll understand why.” He leaned back in his chair. “Okay, thanks for your story. There isn’t any more, correct? Good. What you’ve told me tallies with everything your friends have already said. Now I’m going to explain what’s behind all the things you experienced, and what you missed while you were unconscious. I know that at first you’re not going to believe what I tell you, but unfortunately, it’s a fact. We’ll go over this again a couple of times, and eventually you will accept it as such.”

I frowned at that. He gave me a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but I didn’t find it reassuring at all..

“To put it briefly, there is a man named Ron Simon. He’s a thief, a murderer... probably a psychopath… from the UK. His story is long and complicated, but for the moment I’m going to give you the briefest summary, so we can get you processed and out of here. I'll tell you all you really need to know, in any case. So! In a nutshell, Simon got access to a discovery that allows him to switch identities with anyone he touches. That girl you met… she was actually Simon. A grown man in a young girl’s body.”

I was about to protest, but he put up his hand. “Just listen. Soon you’ll have more proof than you’ll ever need. Maybe more proof than you'll every want. So just listen. Let me finish. Simon has been jumping from body to body across Europe and now the US. He’s left a trail of chaos, confusion, and crime, and he’s nearly impossible to stop. In several countries, various police agencies are hunting him, trying to catch him, but he can jump from one person to another faster than thought. Just imagine, the policeman who’s about to arrest him is suddenly Simon. Who would know? The trusted bank employee who just held up the bank — Simon again. That’s why we tranquilized all of you immediately. We had no way of knowing who was Simon and who was an innocent bystander.”

I mulled this over. “And what happens to the people he switched with? Do you use the, uh, discovery or invention or whatever it is, to switch them back?”

“No, Simon destroyed every trace of that technology, and killed the scientist who discovered it.”

“Huh,” I said, taking it in. “So how do they switch back? The people who got switched? Do you bring them together and poof! they’re back to who they were? Like a Freaky Friday kind of thing? Or does the switch wear off after an hour or a day or something?”

“No. It never wears off. Nobody switches back. Ever. It’s a one-way ticket. Everyone who got switched is stuck. They’re stuck being whoever Simon was when he touched them. Forever.”

I struggled with the idea. “But… so… who is… Listen, let’s say you were Simon, and you switch with me. Then who are you?”

“I’d be you,” he said. “And you’d be Simon.” After a pause he added, "On the inside. Understand? If I was Simon and I switched with you, you'd be stuck in my body, and I -- Simon -- would be living in your body."

“But then I could switch back and we’d be like before.”

“No. Apparently Simon can only switch once with a person. It’s like being vaccinated. You can’t get it again. Don’t ask me why.”

“So, if I was in your body, and Simon was in mine… and I -- Simon -- switch with someone else… like the nurse… then Simon would be in the nurse's body, she would be in mine, and I would be in yours. Did I get that right?”

“A hundred percent.” He nodded.

“Forever,” I added.

“Yep.”

“Wow,” I said. “That would really suck.” I considered the implications. It would certainly suck, in a very big way.

There were still some pieces that didn’t fit yet. I frowned, trying to work it out. Then I asked, “So… that girl. She was Simon, right? Who is that girl now?”

The FBI man smiled. Not a nice smile. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. The punchline, the payload. He paused a moment for dramatic effect. Then he told me. “That would be you, Leo.”

My mouth fell open. At first I was speechless. Then I sputtered. I lifted my arms and legs to protest, and saw them for the first time. I was wearing a hospital gown, and covered by a sheet, but I could see how skinny my arms and legs were, how short I was, and how pale my skin had become. I actually had lost at least a hundred pounds. No wonder I felt lighter. “I’m the — she’s the — what!? No!” I exclaimed, fumbling my phrases. “NO! NO! NO!”

The asshole sat there smiling, clearly enjoying my confusion and surprise. He didn’t make any effort to hide his glee. He sat there like a bastard and smirked while I flipped out. My eyes, my hands, frantically explored my new body. Yes, skinny was the operative word. Somehow, I was now a skinny teenage kid. My hair was mercifully short, but unnaturally black.

“Switch me back!” I shouted. “Switch me the hell back!”

He shook his head and waited for me to quiet down. Then he consulted his tablet and told me, “I had to make a diagram to keep track of who’s who.” He was clearly loving this. By now, I was well over 1000% sure that I didn’t like him at all.

He turned his tablet toward me. He actually had a slideshow that illustrated every move Simon made. "The circles are the people. The arrows are the switches. At the start, the girl was Simon. She switched with you. So now the girl — you — is Leo. Then Simon jumped to Theresa, so Theresa is now in Leo’s body. Then, switch, switch, Meredith is in Theresa’s body, and Max is in Meredith’s body.”

“And Simon?”

“Simon is in Max’s body.”

I frowned. I couldn’t follow the new who’s who. As soon as he told me the changes, I forgot them all.

I asked, “Did you catch that asshole? I would love to kick his ass.”

At that, the agent burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s just too rich. With that tiny little foot of yours? He wouldn’t even feel it.”

I fumed, and balled up my fists, but I knew that losing my temper wasn’t going to help anything. I opened my fists and sat on my hands. Swallowing my bile, I asked, “But you tranquilized everyone, you said. Everyone includes Max, so you must have caught him.”

“No,” the agent said. “Max — or Simon now — jumped your back fence before our agents swarmed your yard. We didn’t know he was there, so we didn’t know he was missing. In fact, we had no idea that he’d gone until he was well away. We figured that one of you was Simon, and that we’d finally caught him. We didn’t give chase because we didn’t know anyone was running.”

I sat there in silence, marinating in all this new information. In retrospect, I can see that the tranquilizer dart helped me keep my cool. Otherwise, I would have been screaming, raving, punching and kicking. The agent gave me a few moments to take it in.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked with a smirk.

“Yes,” I said. “Did anyone think to turn off my grill?”

“Your grill?” he repeated, not understanding.

“Yeah, the grill in my backyard.”

We looked each other in the eye for a few seconds, until he got it. As an expression of hostility it was pretty weak, but it was the best I could do at the moment.

“Oh, yeah, your grill. Uh, probably, yeah,” he nodded. “In any case, I’m sure the steaks are done by now. I’m sure they’re WELL done by now.”

He laughed, but I didn’t.

 

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The agent called the nurse back. She arrived carrying some nondescript clothes. The agent stepped into the hall while I dressed. The clothes were kind of big on me, but the pants stayed up, which was the main thing. The agent escorted me to a different room, where a tired-looking lawyer was waiting for me.

He shifted some papers on his desk and asked, “Bliston, Leo?” I nodded. “This session is being recorded. Please respond verbally yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Born May 25, 1978?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Now, you may have been told that the woman who was your wife, Theresa, now inhabits your old body, and that her body is now inhabited by—” He consulted his tablet— “Meredith Shearpen. Also, your friend Max Shearpen is now in Meredith’s former body. It’s a real mess.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“Yes, and I have to tell you, that — from my experience — each person is likely to feel that they’ve drawn the short end of the stick. Your friends were given the option of assuming new identities, but as a group, they’ve decided to keep the identity of the body they now inhabit. After some discussion, they came to the conclusion that it was the easiest thing, albeit somewhat mind-bending and uncomfortable.”

“They’re going to have to make some serious adjustments,” the FBI agent commented with a smirk. The lawyer and I ignored him.

“I asked several times, in various ways, whether any of them would be willing to take you into their care,” the lawyer continued.

“Why would you ask that?” I interrupted. “I can take care of myself.”

The agent scoffed. The lawyer shot him a look.

“No, you can’t,” the lawyer contradicted. “I’m not surprised that you haven’t considered some of the more immediate consequences of your change, but the fact is, you are now a minor. That’s an important, determinant fact. Physiologically, you are thirteen years old, no matter how much life experience you’ve accumulated. When you leave this facility, no one will vouch for your previous age or identity. You will be a new person, and as that new person you have to consider your options.”

“None of my friends wanted me?” I asked, both offended and surprised. “None of them?”

The agent laughed. “No, not one of them! They didn’t even need to think about it. Especially your wife! She sounded good and glad to be rid of you, although she was more than a little miffed to find out that she’s you now.”

“We are helping them with some small adjustments and counseling…” the lawyer began, but the agent interrupted again.

“I don’t know whether you understand how much your so-called friends dislike you,” he continued. “The way they tell it, you’ve screwed up each of their lives to a significant degree. Did you know that your wife has been planning to file for divorce? She’s been working on it for months. Did you know that?”

Actually, I didn’t know that. Still, it was none of his business. “Hey!” I shot back. “You don’t get to talk to me like that!”

“Why? Are you going to cry, little girl? What are you going to do about it? File a complaint? Who’re you going to file it with? You going to write a letter to the newspapers, or tell the world on Twitter? You might as well put in a letter to Santa Claus! Nobody’s going to believe you. Think about it: this place doesn’t exist. The lawyer, the nurse, me — none of us exist. You don’t know our names. You have no idea where you are. But you know what? We’ve seen dozens of people just like you. Dozens! We clean them up, put them on their feet, and send them out of here. That’s all we do. That’s all we can do. You’ll be out of here tomorrow, and once you leave, you'll never come back, and none of this have ever happened. Do you understand?

“Besides, I think your friends would be happy to know I’m telling you all this. They were pretty tired of putting up with your shit.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the lawyer said. “I have to get out of here, too, you know.” He shuffled some papers for emphasis, and the agent gestured that he was done talking. The lawyer continued.

“As I said, you’re a minor. Right now, you have two possibilities. The first is that you go into the system, become a ward of the state. Some family could foster you, hopefully a nice family with a nice home. You might even get adopted. That’s door number one.

“Door number two, on the other hand, is that you live this girl’s life, the way your friends are living each other’s lives. You pick up where she left off. You take her name, her identity, become a part of her family. The girl’s parents are coming. They want to talk to you. They’ll be here tomorrow. They’ll meet you, talk with you, maybe offer to take you in.”

I scoffed. I couldn’t help it.

“If I were you,” the lawyer said, “I’d make a serious effort to make nice with the girl’s parents. You’re better off in a settled, stable situation. With them, you’d have the added advantage of their knowing who you really are. If you go into the system, you’ll be just another teenage orphan. If you start telling people that you’re really 42, they’ll think you’re nuts. This family, on the other hand, will understand… as far as they’re able.

“You’ve got tonight to think it over. The parents will be here after breakfast.” He straightened his papers into a single pile and put them in his briefcase, along with his tablet. Then he looked me in the eye.

“From what your friends said, you don’t sound like the nicest person. In fact, you sound like a con man. A shyster. Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t try to con this couple. Be sincere and truthful, even if it’s difficult. You don’t want to bullshit them, because I think they’re on their last—” He stopped himself, and considered for a moment.

He shook his head before continuing. “I shouldn’t be telling you their story. You’ll find out when you meet them. It’s as much their decision as it is yours. I suggest that you listen to them. If you’re smart you’ll make up your mind to go home with them. If they take you, they will literally be giving you a second chance at life. If you want to stick to your old ways, if you want to be a cheat and a con and an asshole, then tell me that you want to go into the system. Roll the dice. On the other hand, if you want to start clean and new and make something worthwhile out of your life, go with the girl’s parents.”

A Minority Of One : 2 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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Men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things. — Zane Grey

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When I left the meeting with the lawyer, I had a lot to think about. I could kind of understand that Theresa might see me as an “asshole” — I mean, we were married for twenty years! You can’t live with anyone in such proximity without irritating each other! You get to notice things… little things… like the way that Theresa says “consequently” a thousand times a day. I’ve never said anything to her about it, but it bugs me. Still, I’ve never made a big deal out of it. When you’re married, you have to let things go.

The FBI agent was walking at my side, smirking like the jackass that he was. He stopped abruptly, struck by a thought. “Hey,” he said, as if reading my mind, “It really bugs you that your friends didn’t want to adopt you, doesn’t it? Maybe there’s a way you can fix that: you can tell them that, now that you’re pint sized, they can spank you whenever you misbehave.”

I gave him a look of disgust. “That is SO inappropriate, man. Grossly inappropriate.” He let out a short bark of a laugh, and started walking again.

I was just about to ask him what time it was, where we were going, and whether I could get something to eat, when we turned the corner and ran into the nurse.

“Hi!” she said, with a smile at me. “I was coming to get you. I’ve got something for you to eat, and then I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping. How’s that sound?”

“Great,” I replied, and the two of us looked in silence at the FBI guy until he put up his hands and said, “Okay, okay! I’m leaving,” He turned and walked away.

The nurse led me to a small, nondescript break room. There was a fridge, a microwave, a sink, and a table with four chairs. I sat in a chair while she fetched my “dinner” from the fridge: three plastic-wrapped sandwiches, an apple, and — believe it or not — a half-pint carton of milk.

“Gee, thanks, Mom!” I said, in a chirpy, teen-girl voice. She burst out laughing.

“There’s cake if you’re good — but only if you eat all your dinner,” she replied, in a joking version of a “Mom” voice.

“Is there really cake?” I asked.

“Yes, there’s cake,” she said. Then, hesitating, she added, “Seeing as how today is your birthday — in a way — I thought about giving you the cake first, but if you eat the cake, you won’t eat the sandwiches.”

I was about to contradict, when my stomach let out a loud rumble. I sighed with resignation and tore open the sandwiches. The choices were tuna salad, chicken salad, and bologna with cheese. Whoever made the sandwiches leaned heavily on the mayonnaise. “Now I know where I am,” I told her. “This has to be the Mayo Clinic.”

She made a puzzled frowned, silently repeating Mayo Clinic. When I lifted a slice of bread to show her the generous slathering of thick, white sauce atop the orange cheddar, she got it. “Hmm,” she observed, “That *is* a lot of mayo, but I you might want to leave the Dad jokes behind when you start your new life.”

“Hmmph.” If the FBI guy had said it, I would have been angry, but I knew that the nurse was nothing but kind. She was probably right, as well.

I took an experimental bite of the chicken salad. It wasn’t bad. The tuna sandwich was a little soggy, so I ate that first.I couldn’t deal with the bologna-cheddar-mayo combination, even after wiping most of the mayo off.

The milk? Well, it tasted milky, the way milk does. “I haven’t had a glass of milk in what? Twenty— thirty years?” I mused. The strange incongruity of my remark caught the two of us up short. We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, then let the awkward moment pass in awkward silence.

After I finished the sandwiches and the apple, she produced a large slice of a beautiful multi-layer cake. There was chocolate icing between the two bottom layers and raspberry icing between the two top layers. It was covered with a white buttercream icing. I took a forkful, and found it superb.

“I can’t believe this cake came from the same kitchen as those whack-ass sandwiches!” I exclaimed, and got up to grab a second half-pint of milk.

“It’s not from the same kitchen,” she confessed. “It’s actually the last piece of Ron’s birthday cake. I kind of stole it.”

“Who’s Ron?” I asked. She didn’t answer, she just let a half-smile dance on her lips. I got it in one: “He’s the FBI ass—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” she cautioned, cutting me off with finger wag and a smile. “Now that you’re this size and shape, you’re going to have quit swearing. If you don’t, it will make you stand out, and not in a good way.”

I shrugged and dug into the cake, which was now doubly excellent.

 

---

 

In spite of the sugary cake, I was tired when I finished eating. The nurse brought me to a dorm room. Like every other room in this place, it was painted the same dull, institutional green that gave a definite “prison” vibe. There were four sets of bunk beds bolted to the floor. The door was locked, but there was a phone on the wall next to the door. It had no dial or keypad, but the nurse told me that if I took the phone off the hook it would ring at the security desk down the hall. The room had an attached bathroom fitted with two showers, two sinks, and two toilet stalls.

She gave me towels, sheets, a pillow case, and a blanket. When I stared at her blankly, she sighed and made up the bed closest to the bathroom.

"Hey, where are the others? My friends? My so-called friends."

"We don't put kids and adults together," she replied.

"Got it." It made sense. In my particular case, maybe they kept us apart so they wouldn't have a fight on their hands.

After she left, I realized I had no idea what time it was. I wanted to know, but didn’t seem important enough to pick up the phone and ask. It was strange, not knowing — I mean, I didn’t even have a general sense of which part of the day it was: Day or night? Morning or evening? Did I just eat lunch or dinner? Or was it a midnight snack?

Of course, I had no sense of how long I’d been knocked out, and consequently how long I’d been in this place. There were no windows, so there was no light from outside. The lights in the hallway dimmed after the nurse left, so it felt like night.

The nurse suggested I take a shower before bed (“It’ll help you relax, and you are a bit stinky”) but instead I curled up in the blanket and lay on the bed fully clothed. I didn’t even bother to take off my shoes until I half-woke later in the apparent night and kicked them off.

It took a long time to fall asleep. Sure I was tired, and I still felt sleepy and fuzzy-headed from the tranquilizer dart. Unfortunately, everything else militated against my drifting off.

First of all, the crappy food. My stomach hurt. Maybe that was down to nerves, or the way I gobbled them up. I had eaten with unusual speed. Maybe that was part of having a teenage metabolism.

On the other hand I had to wonder whether this girl — this girl’s body — was lactose intolerant. Did mayonnaise have lactose? Or worse, was she gluten intolerant? Did mayonnaise have gluten? Anyway, either of those intolerances would suck. Having both would suck even more. If she did have some intolerance, would it mean that I’d wake up with diarrhea? (Spoiler: I didn’t.)

Second, the creepy surroundings. I had no idea where on earth we were. It seemed like a military base, but I wasn’t aware of any military base anywhere near home. Did that mean we were far away? Or was this a secret urban base, hidden in plain sight? Or deep underground somewhere? Did secret underground bases even exist in this country? There was no way of knowing — they’d be secret! At the same time, this place didn’t need to be very big to accommodate the handful of rooms I’d seen. For all I knew, we could be in a basement at an industrial park.

Third, wherever I was, I was certainly a prisoner. They assured me that I wasn’t; they told me explicitly that I wasn’t under arrest or in any kind of trouble, but it sure felt like captivity. I mean, I couldn’t leave, right?

Which led to the fourth thing: when they DID let me go, they’d have to give me to someone. I was a minor, for fuck’s sake. I couldn’t live on my own except as a runaway. Unfortunately, running away wasn’t a viable option. Even if I managed to (1) get away, and (2) cook up a fake identity with (3) a fake ID, there was no way I could pass for an adult: I was flat as a board; obviously pre-pubescent. And I was small — which was an issue in itself. Being pint-sized was was even weirder than being a girl. As Leo I would have filled this bunk. I would have found it cramped and small. Now, no matter how I lay, there was space below my feet and above my head. Another kid my size could fit in next to me without crowding. And — as the FBI guy had observed — if I needed to kick someone in the ass, these little feet of mine wouldn’t make any impact. If I balled up my little fists and gave someone a punch in the gut, even if I put every ounce of strength and every atom of weight behind it, they’d laugh it off.

My point being, I couldn’t survive on my own. Not in this body.

And so, oh boy, there was a *fifth* item to add to the list of disturbing stuff to keep me awake: In a few years — by the way, how many years would it be? —I’d start having the monthly blues — or reds, really. How messy was THAT going to be? I tried to mentally gather everything I knew about menstruation. It didn’t take long: I knew next to nothing about it. I mean, I understood the process on a vague, textbook level, but what was it like to experience a period? Would I be an irrational bitch half the time? Without any effort, I could call to mind a dozen times that Theresa lay into me, shouting, even screaming, over nothing whatsoever. All on account of good old Aunt Flo. Great. Now I’d be doing that, too.

And didn’t cramps come with that as well? And headaches? I wasn’t sure about those items, but one thing I *was* sure about, was the mess.

It would be nice to know how much warning you get, before it comes. Maybe I could get the lowdown on all that from the nurse in the morning.

Strangely though, of all the things I had to grapple with, the one item that was clearest and most concrete was the whole Switcher business, with this Simon guy. That part — the craziest, most far-fetched part — was the easiest to believe. I didn’t need a mirror to know what I’d become: I could feel it. And I could see it, simply by looking down at myself. I was living in a different body. I was somebody else, somebody different, now. No doubts; no fuzzy uncertainties. I couldn’t question the evidence of my senses. That would be insanity.

From there, my thoughts drifted inevitably to my wife and friends — each of them in their new bodies. At least in their cases, they already knew their new selves. They already had history with the person they had become. I pictured each of them and mentally swapped the personalities with the faces. It could be comical, like a wacky sitcom. Whatever. I’m sure they’ll get used to it.

Which was a sixth thing! Right? I was up to six things, so far, that were keeping me awake, yes. And what a thing! Why did Theresa suddenly hate me and want to toss me over the side? She always wanted a child, and here I was, ready made: the child she never had.

Yes, sure — there was a bundle of sensitive issues there… It would be weird as hell, but the two of us had history together. Big history. How could she, when things got a little strange, give me a flat NO, right out of hand? How could she throw me off the train, so to speak? How could she abandon me? Involuntarily I pictured Theresa and me: the two of us together, as mother and daughter — but only for a moment. My mind rejected the image. The picture was wrong, anyway: I imagined Theresa as she used to be: a woman, living in her own body, and me as I am now — a little girl. But that’s not how it would go. Theresa was me now — Leo. She was a great big guy. We’d be father and daughter, not mother and daughter. We'd be like Gerard Depardieu and Katherine Heigl in My Dad The Hero. Okay, I had to admit: it would be very awkward. It would be awkward as hell.

Alright. I could see that she wouldn’t want me as her child — let alone daughter! — but divorce? Why on earth would she divorce me?

Then again, who would she really be divorcing? Let’s see — Theresa was now me. Meredith was now Theresa. So… in reality, Theresa would be divorcing Meredith. That made some kind of sense.

And Max? Max would be all alone, as Meredith. Oh man, what a fate! Not that Meredith was bad-looking. I mean, she was okay. Although I couldn’t picture Max being interested in guys. And what would he do for a living? Max was a big-time computer programmer — he couldn’t just show up at his office out of the blue as Meredith and say, “Hey, everything that Max could do, I can do now!”

He’d have to pick up Meredith’s Maid Service — her home and office cleaning business.

And THAT pulled in yet another consideration to really keep me awake: the job, the heist.

When that goddamn girl walked into our yard, I had just begun to outline a job: a con, a major theft — one that couldn’t work without Meredith’s business.

I nearly let the cat out of the bag about that, when I told the agent that I “wondered how much the girl had heard.” If the agent wasn’t so intent on smirking at my situation, he would have asked, “Heard about what? What were you talking about?” Then, no matter what I answered, he’d go ask the same question of my three friends.

I’m not sure, though, how much they'd be able to tell him. The heist is still only an idea. A lot of key pieces were still missing, a lot of details that I didn’t know. It isn’t workable yet. The basic idea was sound, though. I hate the phrase “the perfect crime” — I’m not sure that there *is* such a thing. A perfect crime is a one that no one notices. A perfect crime is like a perfect game in baseball: it seems like nothing happened. No one realizes a crime has been committed at all. That’s what makes it perfect.

However, an unreportable crime comes in as a very strong second to “perfect,” and my idea was in that category: there was a way to steal millions, literal millions — maybe even half a billion — from someone who was a thief himself. He wouldn’t be able to call *any* branch of law enforcement without exposing his own crimes. In fact, after the heist, his best move would be to go on the run himself, which had the added benefit of leading everyone to believe that he took all the money himself, including the money we stole.

It was good, really good. It was tantalizing. The excitement of it kept me up at night. Even so, the plan had too many holes: I needed a lot more information. That was the point of the barbecue: I wanted to float the idea to the others, and talk it through. I needed input from Theresa and cooperation from Meredith. Max was just a bonus — if I could hook him, I figured it would make it easier to interest the two women.

My spirit fell again… I had assumed that my friends — if they were my friends — would be willing to discuss the idea, at least as a hypothetical. I felt sure that they’d want to help me work out the rough spots, fill in the gaps, but maybe I was wrong.

I knew they weren’t criminals, but this was an opportunity that could tempt anyone. It certainly tempted me, almost to the point of obsession.

Let’s say that they took in enough of what I did manage to say… let’s say they grasped the basic idea. From there, they might be able to work out what was missing, how to do it. They wouldn’t need me. Certainly I brought a certain expertise to the table, even in my present form, but they’d have to be willing to listen, to give me a chance.

Unfortunately, though — if the FBI guy was to be believed — my “friends” didn’t want to hear anything from me. They were angry and offended and glad to be rid of me.

I wiped my nose on the edge of the blanket, and frowned to myself. I’d covered all the topics that were keeping me awake, and pretty much put them to rest, or least set them to the side for now. The only ones that still rankled were the divorce and the badmouthing.

The FBI guy claimed that my friends bitched about me, and said that I’d “ruined” their lives. But was that really how the conversation went? Let’s say that Theresa was angry, upset, and frustrated — among other things, about this Switcher business. Okay. So she looks in the mirror, she sees my face, and out of force of habit, she fires off a few old complaints about me. Standard stuff: everything is Leo's fault. The FBI guy, who is clearly a loser, is already salivating at the idea of mocking me for ending up as a little girl. Now, he hears Theresa airing old, shop-worn complaints. For him, on the other hand, it’s dirt he’s never heard before, so he thinks it’s a bright, new, juicy revelation.

Meredith is there. She’s Theresa’s best friend, almost to the point of being servile. Okay. So, as Theresa’s BFF, Meredith would go along with anything Theresa said. She’d echo Theresa’s complaint, and probably amplify or extend it a little. That made sense: that’s what always happened. Theresa bitches a little, and Meredith jumps on board. She’s that kind of person. If Theresa said something absurd, like “I hate pizza!” Meredith would pipe up and say, “I hate pizza, too! I’ve ALWAYS hated pizza! What’s up with pizza, anyway?” Of course, neither of them actually feel that way. It’s just a thing they do.

All the while the stupid FBI guy is there, soaking it up, thinking he’s hearing something I haven’t already heard a hundred times or more. He’s listening and smirking.

Then there’s Max. Max is my friend. I love him to death, but he’ll do anything to get along. He absolutely hates confrontation. The man has no backbone. He’ll lie down and let Meredith walk all over him. If Meredith says, “Pizza sucks” Max will say, “Oh, yeah. I was just about to say that.”

Let’s be clear about one thing, though: they all love pizza. None of them have ever said a word against it. It’s just a made-up example. And — they all love me. In spite of the things they might have said, or things the FBI clown misunderstood.

Okay, so that settled that.

There was just one thing left: something the nurse said, that needed checking out.

I stuck my nose inside my shirt, inhaled, then sniffed my hair. Whoa! I wasn’t just “a bit stinky” — I reeked. Badly. I was a real stink bomb. I sighed, a loud, heavy sigh. Then, on purpose, I let out a REALLY loud, exaggerated sigh. I was all alone, so what difference did it make? And so what if I was stinky? There was no one here to smell me.

I took a whiff of myself again and groaned. It was bad. Like dead-animal bad. The thing is, I didn’t want to take a shower. Not for anything. I could reek until morning, as far as I was concerned. The problem with taking a shower was, if I took a shower, I’d have to take off my clothes. If I took off my clothes, I’d see myself naked, in my new body. I wasn’t ready for that. I couldn’t deal with it yet. If I saw myself naked, I’d be crossing the Rubicon. There would be no way I could pretend I was still the same person, not even inside. I was somebody else now. Everything had changed or was going to change. But not tonight. I could hold everything off for one night. I’d take my shower in the morning, and THEN everything could change.

Tomorrow, I’d see my friends, Theresa, Meredith, and Max. Now that I’d thought things through, I wasn’t angry with them. I was hurt, for sure, but I understood. I resigned myself that when it came time to say goodbye, I’d do my best to leave on good terms. I could forgive them.

And did I really have to say goodbye? We’ll see.

After that, I’d meet this girl’s parents. They’d probably want to see if this could work… if they could take me, as if I was their actual daughter. My heart sank. How could they possibly want me? I wasn’t her. I couldn't be her; I knew nothing at all about her. I took a breath, and accidentally sobbed, a single sob. Or something that sounded like a sob, a little sob. I wasn’t crying.

But, face it: My own friends didn’t want me, and they know me. This couple, this girl's parents, not only didn’t know me from Adam (or Eve), but I wasn’t their daughter. I couldn’t begin to pretend to be their daughter. Why were they even bothering to come? There wasn’t any con or charm to work on these people. One look at me, and it would be over. Everything about me, every word I said, every facial expression, every gesture, every tone, every movement — every everything would scream I’M NOT NOT HER!

I started to cry. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. My nose ran like a dripping wound, and — like the asshole that I am — I wiped my runny nose on the clean blanket again. I blew my nose copiously on the pillowcase and flipped the pillow over. Sorry, but I wasn’t getting out of bed just to find a tissue. I curled up in my blanket-cocoon, miserable and stinking, and cried like a lost little girl.

 

---

 

The next thing I knew, someone was gently shaking me. “Wake up. Wake up, Leo. Time to wake up.”

I blinked into the light. It was the nurse, from yesterday. She was holding her nose and waving her hand in front of her face.. “You didn’t take a shower, Leo! Why didn’t you? You smell bad! REALLY bad.”

“I didn’t want to,” I mumbled.

“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t want to,” I said, this time clearly.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want— I didn’t want to see myself naked.”

“Ohhh!” she exclaimed, getting it. “Okay,” she said, speaking gently. “What if I help you, and you keep your eyes shut?”

I considered it for a moment, then declined. “No, I’ll do it,” I said. “I have to get over it — get it over with. Bite the bullet, whatever. One thing that might help, though, would be a small shot of a tranquilizer dart, if you still have one.”

Of course she didn’t have one. She wouldn’t give me one, even if she did. I only was joking, anyway.

While she waited, I stripped, and saw my pale, bony frame for the first time. I conceded myself a single sigh, then got down to it. I shampooed my hair, I soaped up and washed every part of me. I felt forlorn, helpless, and alone. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink. I looked like a drowned cat. Even so, I didn’t stop to soak in self-pity. I kept going. For a second time, I shampooed and soaped up all over again to make sure I got the stink out. I had to try and make a good impression on the girl’s parents.

Once I was dry, dressed, and had brushed my teeth (twice!), and combed my hair, I felt a lot better, although I wasn’t optimistic on my chances with the parents.

“Can I see my friends now?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “I’m sorry, but they’re gone. They left. Once they worked out their legal stuff, they were escorted out.”

“Without saying goodbye.”

She hesitated, then after a look at me said, “Actually, they *did* want to see you. They wanted to confront you — particularly your, ah, ex-wife. In her exact words, she wanted to really tell you off. She wanted let you have it, once and for all.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“When she and the others saw you sleeping, she lost the heart to do it.”

I frowned, not understanding, so the nurse explained, “You’re forgetting: you’re a little girl. You look quite angelic when you’re asleep.”

“Huh.”

“Your wife was embarrassed. REALLY embarrassed. She turned all red, and left, and once we were out of earshot, she couldn’t stop talking about how she’d feel like a monster laying into you now, and so on.”

“Okay,” I said. “I get the picture. So when do this girl’s parents arrive? And what is this girl’s name, by the way?”

“Celine Morsten,” the nurse replied.

“Where is the real Celine Morsten? Who is she now?”

“Um… she was shot dead by police in a separate Switcher incident.”

 

---

 

After breakfast, I met with the lawyer again. He repeated that I would leave in one of two ways: I’d either be accepted by the Morstens as their daughter, or go to child protective services as an orphan. “Those are your only possibilities,” he said. “If the Morstens don’t want you, you’ll be out of here as soon as we issue your new documents. You might start thinking of what you’d like to call yourself, if the Morstens don’t want you.”

“What I’d like to call myself?” I repeated stupidly.

“Yes, you’ll need a name. A whole new name. First name, last name… middle name, if you like. You ought to start thinking now, because if the Morstens say no, you’ll be gone as soon as your documents are ready. If you don’t have a name right then, one will be chosen for you at random, from a list.”

At that, I drew a blank. I sat in a chair for a half hour, waiting for the Morstens. All I could think about was my name. Your Name Here. Who could I be? First name, last name. Something, Something. Hi, I’m — something. My name is — Bond, James Bond. Dent, Arthur Dent. Fine, but I needed a woman’s name. Hello! My name is “fill in the blank.” Could I be “Celine Morsten” even if they didn’t want me? Probably not.

Names flowed through my head. None of them were any good. They were either (1) stupid names (like Bertha Twins or Tess Tickles), (2) names of people I knew, or (3) names of famous people. For a few minutes I actually believed that it would be cool as hell if I called myself Rebecca De Mornay. Sure, it’s the coolest name ever, but it wouldn’t work. They probably wouldn’t let me choose it, anyway. Then, some ridiculous part of my subconscious threw up the name Monalisa Heggadeggaden. I don’t know where it came from, but like a stupid song that gets stuck in your brain, once that idiotic name came into my head, I couldn’t shake it. I struggled to find a plausible name to drive it out, but it resisted.

It was so persistent, in fact, that when I finally met Mr Morsten and shook his hand, I almost said, “Hello, my name is Monalisa Heggadeggaden,” but I managed to squelch the impulse and just say, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m pretty overwhelmed, honestly,” I confessed. Then I noticed that he’d been crying: his eyes and nose were red. He looked pretty damn tired, as well. So I asked, “How are you doing?”

“Not very well,” he said. “All of this Switcher shit… on top of everything else...” he let the words trail off. He was a big guy, six-three maybe, 230 pounds? He was built like a linebacker. He didn’t look like the type who cried very often.

“So, your name is Leo, is that right?” he asked me. “I mean your real name, who you were before.”

“Right. Leo Bilsten.”

“Leo, I’m Ken.” He took a breath, and began. “So here’s the deal, Leo: My wife and I have lost our daughter.”

“I know, I heard she was shot.”

He winced at the word. “Yes, she was. She was. But did you know that she provoked the shooting?”

“What?”

“Yes, Celine was… wild. Feral. She had zero impulse control. She was destructive, violent.” He paused and looked off before confessing, in a low, intense tone, ”My wife and I, we were afraid of her.”

“Think about that,” he said, letting it sink in. “Think about being afraid of your own child. I’m not a fearful man. I’m a cop, I’d like to say that I’m not afraid of anything, but that little girl scared the hell out of me. The shit she pulled nearly destroyed us, a few times over. I’ve had to leave my job, pull up roots, and move three times, on account of stuff she’s done. And she was never sorry. Never.

“I’m not going to get into her life story, except to say that we just moved, just one week ago. I’m supposed to start a new job, in new place. Then this Switcher business happened. That Simon guy, after he took her identity, he came along on the move and actually lived with us! For a little over a week. We thought Celine had finally turned over a new leaf, but instead it was that murderous psychopath laying low. A policewoman who’d seen the switch finally helped track Celine down. That was yesterday, when the switch was pulled on you.”

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t quite follow the details, but I let it go.

“Here’s the deal, Leo: We talked with your friends. They told us a lot about you. They said you’ve committed fraud, you’ve conned people and gotten away with it. You’ve stolen and cheated and never held an honest job. Is that true?”

I looked him the eye. I wasn’t going to lie. I didn’t expect this to work out, and after seeing his distress, I figured the best thing I could do was to try to make it easy for them to say goodbye. If I made it clear that I only looked like their daughter, maybe they’d have a chance at moving on.

So I said, “Yes, it’s true. I’m not an honest person. I’ve never held a real job. I’ve used the people around me… It’s all true. I don’t know what my friends have said, but I’m sure that whatever they told you is accurate.”

Ken nodded. “On the other hand, your friend Max or Meredith, however you want to call him or her, said that you have a good heart and that if we offered you a second chance, you might use it in the right way.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I didn’t want to make promises. I found myself saying, “I appreciate Max’s vote of confidence.”

Ken nodded again.

“Here’s the deal, Leo: our daughter Celine put us through hell. We don’t miss that, but she was our daughter. We loved her and we miss her. Here is my offer: if you come with us, *you* will be our daughter. We know that you’re not Celine. You won’t have to pretend with Lois and me. You can talk about being Leo, if you need to — and that’s not something you’ll be able to do if you go into the system.

“We want a second chance at raising our daughter. We’d like to see it turn out right for a change. We’ll treat you right, and we expect you to treat us right. Remember though: it’s a two-way street. If you want us to trust and respect you, you’re going to have to trust and respect us. It won’t work if it everything only goes in one direction, the way it did with the real Celine.

“You have to understand viscerally that we are damn fucking tired of living in hell. If you engage in criminal activity, if you take drugs, if you drink before you’re legal, if you lie or steal, if you even try to commit fraud, if you behave in any way that makes our lives difficult, we will disown you and make sure you end up in juvie or in jail, whichever is more appropriate. And believe me, by now I know how to make that happen very quickly.

“We want a normal, quiet life. If you want that, too, then we can try to do this together. We’ll get a second chance with Celine, and you’ll get a second chance as Celine.

“But only a second chance. There won’t be a third. If you fuck up, you’re done.”

“What do you say, Leo? Should I call my wife in, so the three of us can talk? Or should we call it quits right here?”

A Minority Of One : 3 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start. — Zane Grey

---

 

Once Ken was done, his wife Lois, Celine’s mother, came into the room. She didn’t shake my hand. She didn’t greet me, not even with a nod. She gave me a look that chilled me to the bone, after which she sat down and, without preamble, began to speak in a low voice, nearly devoid of emotion.

“There’s something that no man can understand,” she said, “and that’s the connection between a mother and her daughter. That body that you’re living in--" here she pointed at me-- "grew inside me for nine months. I held… you… when you were a defenseless infant, and I fed you from my own breasts. Of course, not you; it was Celine, but you — the physical you, comes from me. You came out of me. That is the strongest fact in my life. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the strongest tie in the universe. Do you understand?”

Although I had no idea what to say, I opened my mouth to speak. Lois didn’t wait for my reply.

“I’m going through the worst, most twisted emotions you can imagine. Even before she was born, my daughter was part of my life — for good and bad, she was part of me. Then we find out that all last week, it wasn’t even her — it was that psychopath, living inside her like a parasite! And now she’s gone — dead!” A sob fought to emerge from her throat, but she choked it back down, and kept going. “She was shot — like a common criminal. And now, there’s you.” She gestured at me.

“Whoever you are, you’re not Celine. I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Leo—”

She interrupted. “I wasn’t asking you. I’m talking because I’m trying to make you feel what I feel. You’re my daughter, but you’re not my daughter.” She shook her head. Tears welled up, but she didn’t cry. Her tears never left her eyes.

I cleared my throat and spoke. “Look, Mrs. Morsten — Lois. Maybe the best thing for all three of us is for me to walk away right now and leave you. I’ll ask them to send me someplace far away, so you’ll never see me, even by accident. I’m not her… I can’t pretend to be.”

“That won’t work,” she said in a flat, dismissive tone. “Do you have any children?”

The absurdity of the question wasn’t lost on us, but I knew she meant as Leo. I shook my head, no.

“When you have a child, they are part of you, forever. Every birthday, every anniversary of her death — those days will darken my heart until the end of my life. And you — If you walk out of this room and enter the system, if we never see you again, I will think about you every day. I won’t want to, but that’s what will happen. Every moment, I’ll wonder where you are and what you’re doing. Even though you’re not her, I’ll worry about all the bad things that could happen to you. I’ll wonder whether you’re alive or dead, sick or well. It will kill me not to know anything about you.

“I know you’re not Celine, inside. You don’t have her soul or her mind, thank goodness, but you have the part that we made. To tell the truth, I don’t want you in our home. It disgusts me that that Simon creature lived with us for a week.” She turned to face Ken. “All that long drive here, it was him in the back seat.”

She fell silent for a moment. Then she went on:

“It’s not that we want Celine back. She made us suffer in ways I didn’t think were possible. I didn’t think she would live to see her eighteenth birthday, and I was right.”

While Lois talked, Ken twisted his hands, one in the other. He kept taking deep breaths and looking away. Sometimes he squirmed and moved his chair an inch one way or another.

While Ken struggled physically with his emotions, Lois barely moved. She’d lift her head to look in my eyes. She’d lower her head to look at the floor. At times she’d make a gesture, but for the most part, she was stock still. Her clothes hung loose upon her, like a scarecrow. Clearly she was burned out. She had no more emotion to give. First Celine, then Simon, had drained her dry.

Even so, she wanted a win here. She was not going to walk away with her hands empty. There was one last thing she refused to let go of, and that “something” was me. Or at least part of me.

“I know you’re not a good man,” she told me, looking me square in the eye. “At least, that’s what your friends have told us. And I know that if we don’t take you, you’ll be a ward of the state, an orphan. If that happens, you won’t be able to talk to anyone about who you really are and how you came to be.

“The same is true for us: the way we lost Celine — it will always be a shameful secret. If you don’t come with us, the State will say she died. They’ll give us a fake death certificate and a story to tell, and that will be the end.

“If you *do* come with us, at least we’ll have that much in common, like three random survivors of a shipwreck, washed up on shore together. We’ll help you learn to live as a teenage girl, and on the outside we’ll look like any normal family. But when we’re alone, we’ll talk sometimes about the horrible things we’ve seen in this life.”

When she looked at me, she looked into my eyes. It was a soulless look that I’ve never experienced before. It wasn’t disgust or anger or sorrow that I read in her eyes. There was a wasteland behind her eyes: a black, burned-over landscape, with no sign of life between here and the horizon. Honestly, the woman terrified me. Her suffering was a black hole; sitting so close to her made me feel I was perched at the very edge of an abyss, and I was afraid I might fall in and never return.

And yet, in spite of Ken’s physical agony and Lois’ vast, cold, boundless depression, they wanted me to come with them. As warped as it seemed, I felt I understood. In spite of who I was inside, I was all that remained of their daughter. I was like the discarded wrapper that once contained a treasure. Now the treasure was gone. If they didn't take the wrapper, they'd have nothing.

Ken and Lois had already made up their minds.

And what about me? How did I feel about Ken and Lois?

The most obvious downside was the emotional turmoil they carried with them — they had just lost a child, after all. Worse than that, they could see her live and move — knowing all the while that she was dead. That had to be a unique kind of horror to have to live.

And yet, as awkward as it might be, negotiating an emotional minefield wasn’t exactly new to me. Theresa went through a year of depression, and it was no picnic. However, after a year she came out of it. Lois would probably do the same, right? I imagine that depression is something like the flu. It hits you and sticks with you until it’s done with you.

There was my other option to consider as well: becoming a ward of the state. At least there I wouldn’t have to masquerade as someone’s dead daughter. I’d be alone, though. And once I turned eighteen, the state would drop me. I’d have to fend for myself. Of course, I’d plan for that day, save what I could, make whatever arrangements I could manage…

Clearly, life would be easier with the Morstens. If I took the role of their daughter, my eighteenth birthday wouldn’t be a drastic cutoff. I’d have more slack in the timeline of creating and establishing my independence.

It struck me that when I considered where my life could go after I left this room, I was still seeing myself basically as Leo. The idea of being someone else, someone new — and of all things, a girl — it hadn’t really penetrated very far into my view of the future.

To tell the truth, I can’t say that I wanted a fresh start, or a new life. I was pretty happy with the life I had as Leo. Also, knowing how I am, how my mind works, could I sincerely promise to live an honest life? Certainly not forever, anyway — but on the other hand, I felt pretty sure that I could lie low for five years with the Morstens, until I was eighteen. After that, all bets were off. Life with the Morstens would be a damn sight better than bouncing around as a foster child. They looked to be in their early thirties: Lois was probably 21 when she had Celine. As it happened, Ken was a cop, yeah, but he didn’t look like an asshole. In the spite of all she’d been through, Lois had a young, hip look that appealed to me — for instance, she had one of those short, asymmetrical hair styles that usually I found strange, but on her it looked good. Her makeup was light, subtle, almost invisible, which I also liked. Her clothes were tasteful, not showy. For sure, I needed to learn all the feminine arts, and Lois looked like the right person to teach me.

In any case, there wasn’t any real choice to be made: I’d either be adrift in the system, utterly alone, or living with a stable couple who knew the score, and... who couldn’t live without me.

 

---

 

The three of us were bundled into the blacked-out back of a van. As I adjusted the straps on the jumpseat, I saw once again how small I am now. I could only just touch the floor with my toes. I wasn’t even half the size of Leo. I pulled the straps as far and tight as they go, but it wasn’t tight enough. “Hang on!” the driver called. “We’re moving out!!” I clutched the straps with both hands, and the van barreled forward.

After an hour of bouncing, braking, and turns, we were let out in a Target parking lot

“Another minute in that van and I would have vomited,” Lois announced. “I think they drove badly on purpose.”

“They didn’t want us keeping track of turns and distances,” Ken explained.

After the van drove off, I asked, “Now what do we do? Take a bus? Call a cab?”

The van had dropped us next to a gray Prius. Ken patted the car and smiled.

“I didn’t think a cop was allowed to drive a Prius,” I quipped.

Ken smiled. “When you’re a tough guy, you can drive whatever the hell you want.”

“Oh, please!” Lois laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Listen,” Ken said. “I am starving! What say we cross the street and hit the Cheesecake Factory before we head home?” Lois and I agreed, and as we walked together, I asked, “Where *is* home, by the way?”

“Lambeth,” Ken replied.

“Lambeth, Connecticut?”

“Yup. The one and only. Do you know it?”

“Um, yeah. That’s where… Leo Blisten, uh, lives.”

“Hmm. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, unless we, like, live right across the street or two doors down or something.”

“Once we order our food, let’s look up your old address on the map.”

We were all pretty hungry. I ordered a burger, fries, and a milkshake. Then, out of habit, I reached for my phone. Lois noticed my movement. “We’ll get you a phone, hon. You’ll need it.”

Ken took the cue, and consulted his. “Well, we’re both on the North Side, but in pretty different neighborhoods. I wouldn’t say we're close at all.”

Lambeth is located on a long hill just north of the Fifth Connecticut Lake. Rich people live on Lakeside, which is (obviously) the side that faces the lake. The rest of us, the working and middle class, live on the North Side, the part of the hill that faces north, away from the lake. My old house and Max’s were up the hill a bit, so they were marginally more expensive, but it was still North Side. Ken and Lois’ house was on the flat land below the hill. It was a fair hike from the Morsten’s to my old house, and they were in completely different neighborhoods.

“We’re not likely to run into each other,” I observed.

We were all a bit relieved at that, although it did put an idea in my head that I’d have to run by Ken.

After our small talk petered out, and we were simply sitting, waiting, hungry, Ken, suddenly remembering, told us in a low voice: “Listen. New rule: no Switcher talk in public. At all. Agreed?”

We all agreed.

Our food arrived, and we fell to. I didn’t realize how hungry my ordeal had left me, and my food was nearly gone before I realized how quickly I was eating. Having a teenage metabolism probably had a lot to do with it. I swallowed the milkshake in a series of gulps, groaned my way through brainfreeze that followed, and THEN asked, “Hey, I’m not lactose intolerant or gluten intolerant or anything like that, am I?”

“No,” Lois said. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I said, and unexpectedly released a loud, frog-like burp that echoed in every corner of the restaurant.

Blushing like a stop light, I apologized. “I had no idea that was even coming out.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ken assured me.

“While you pay, I need to use the little girl’s room.” Lois announced.

I watched Lois work her way through the restaurant, and as soon as she was out of sight, Ken said, “What’s on your mind? Since you finished your food you’ve haven’t quit squirming.”

“Really?” I said. “Wow. I thought I was still as a statue.”

“Nope. Remember: your energy level is much higher than your old self. Plus, your teenage hormones might be kicking in. AND, keep in mind that Celine was always kind of jumpy. Your face and body are probably not as still and unreadable as you’re used to.”

“How do you know what I’m used to?”

“I’ve met the old you — at least, your old body. It doesn’t have the same range of expression you’ve got now.”

I nodded. “Good to know.”

“So, what’s eating you?”

Good question. What was eating me was a stash of money I’d hidden back at my old place. It wasn’t a fortune, but it wasn’t money to throw away. Behind a panel in my home office, I had a little over twenty thousand dollars. Theresa didn’t know about it. It came from various sources over the last five years.

So… yeah, I’m not surprised I was squirming. It would be nice to get my hands on that money, but how? Then it came to me. My father’s books.

I said to Ken, “I know I shouldn’t do this, but I want to go by my old place and pick up some books of mine.” Then I added, “And I want to say goodbye. For good. I didn’t get a chance. I actually haven’t seen my friends since the… since the event.”

Ken simply said, “Okay.” Surprisingly, he didn’t even think about it. Just “okay,” right out of the gate. He unpeeled a toothpick and got busy jimmying the thing in and around his teeth. He stopped for a moment to ask, “Will we need boxes or bags or anything?”

“Oh, yeah — one wine box ought to do it.”

 

---

 

We dropped Lois back at the house. Ken told her, “Celine and I have a little errand to run.” Lois nodded, but didn’t have any other reaction that I could see.

“Move up to the front seat, Celine,” Ken told me, and when I stepped out of the car, Lois stood in my way. “I need to give you a hug,” she said. “I’ve been dying to do that, all day. Come here.” She embraced me. She just… held me. She hung on to me. At last she let go, and with a sad smile said, “Celine — the old Celine — would never let me do that.”

I climbed into the front seat, and it seemed enormously wide. Again, only my toes touched the floor, and I had to hold onto the diagonal part of the seat belt to keep it from crossing my face.

After Lois had gone inside and we were moving again, Ken asked me, “Am I going to have to fight anybody once we get there?”

“No,” I replied, surprised by the question. “I just want to pick up some books.”

He nodded. Ken didn’t look at me. He was the kind of driver who kept his eyes on the road.

We pulled up in front of my former home. It looked bigger to me. I glanced at Max’s house, next door. It also looked considerably larger. “I wonder when this Land of the Giants feeling will pass,” I wondered aloud as I rang the doorbell. Ken tilted his head and looked at me. I wasn’t sure whether he understood. Then, of course, when Theresa opened the door, I had to look up at her.

Now, who was Theresa now? “Uh, Meredith?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she admitted, with a sheepish smile, as if it were some sort of dopey joke. She greeted Ken and shook his hand. “We met earlier at that… place.” Ken nodded. She looked down at me. “And you — what do we call you now?”

“Celine.”

“Nice name.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Listen, I don’t know if it’s okay to invite you in. Let me go get Leo — Theresa — oh, you know who I mean!”

Theresa, now in my old body, came stomping up the hallway, scowling, angry, both hands actively clenching in fists. He looked as if he was about to kick my ass into next week. I heard Ken shift his stance, but I didn’t look away from Leo. Ken already met Leo, I remembered. That’s why he asked if he’d have to fight. I never realized how scary I looked to other people. And if I had to tilt my chin up to gaze into Theresa/Meredith’s smile, my head had to go all the way back to meet Leo/Theresa’s scowl.

“Well, look who it is,” she snarled. I half-expected her to spit on me. She gave a dubious glance at Ken and asked him, “You decided to go through with this? Really? In spite of everything we told you?”

“Yes,” Ken replied. He didn’t add anything. He didn’t justify himself. He only said a simple “yes.”

“Hmmph,” Leo snorted, then sneered down at me. “Look at you now: you’re just a skinny little runt! Maybe now, now that you’re not so big, people will finally get to knock some sense into you.”

“Hey!” Ken barked. “That’s enough of that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Leo countered. “Is it enough? Is it? Look at the mess I’m in. I can’t get a job, because this asshole has no work history, no resume, no job skills to speak of. I used to be an accountant, a controller, a person in a position of responsibility! Now I can’t do that any more, because that’s Theresa’s life, not Leo’s.” His jaw worked, as if he was chewing on his anger. “Even if I WAS still Theresa, this jerk got me FIRED with his scams and with his… with his crooked shit!”

Now I understood. The light broke upon me. After twenty years of living together, I finally, suddenly, realized that I’d never seen our relationship from her point of view. From my point of view, everything was fun, all fun, all good — even now, I’m pretty sure most of it was — but at the same time, I destroyed her career. None of us went to jail, but yes, I was trying to work a scam on her last employer. They couldn’t prove anything, and they didn’t lose any money — which is why (as I said) neither of us went to jail. However, Theresa had to resign. And yet, as bad a setback as that was, I thought she was okay with it! After all, *I* wasn’t worried about it: we had money in the bank... and I was working some possibilities...

This was it: this was the problem, in a nutshell. I was sanguine, happy, full of hope. My view of life was always optimistic. Things were always going to get better. In Theresa’s eyes, on the other hand, the whole mess had already gone to hell. Even before the Switcher got involved.

Why didn’t I see it before? Because I was in there! I was Leo. I was the big man. I was going to make everything right. I had it all in hand. I was going to make it work. But now SHE was Leo, and she had no idea how to begin.

It was clear in that moment what I had to do.

“There’s money,” I said.

“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR STORIES!” Leo shouted. “Your big idea is full of shit! Do you understand me?”

I had to be cautious. I didn’t want Leo to say any more about that “idea.” I don’t know whether the plan was still possible, but there was no point in throwing the possibility completely out the window.

Also because I didn’t want to screw up my place in the Morsten home, I did NOT want Ken to catch even the slightest whiff of my plan.

“It’s not a story,” I assured her. “There’s real money, hidden in the house.”

Leo stopped shouting. He was still breathing hard, as he looked down at me with a fierce red face. His expression was full of hate. I couldn’t help it, I started shaking.

That never happened to me as Leo: I never had attacks of nerves. Now, my legs were wobbling — so much so, that I was afraid they might give way, and I’d fall down.

And then, something magical happened.

Ken put his hand on my shoulder.

As soon as he did, I stopped shaking. I took a big, deep breath, and I wasn’t nervous any more. It was as though the warmth in his big, strong hand let his strength flow into me.

Once again I tilted my head all the way back, so I could look Leo in the eye. I told him, “Let me show you where it is. There’s a secret panel in my office. You won’t find it by yourself. I’ll show you, and then I’ll leave.”

Leo gave me a suspicious look, but he stepped back and gestured for us to enter. I went up the stairs first, then Ken, then Leo. Ken was carrying an empty wine box we’d picked up on the way.

“What’s the box for?” Leo asked suspiciously.

“Books,” Ken said.

“My dad’s books,” I explained.

When we got to my office, I immediately felt something was wrong.

“Did you, uh, did you mess with the papers on my desk?” I asked.

Leo clenched his fists and shouted, “Seriously? Seriously? You’re going to ask me about your fucking papers now? NOW? I can’t believe you! But, no — I didn’t touch your precious papers. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Sorry! Okay, look.” I picked up a ballpoint pen. “There’s a screw here in the wall — see how it’s shinier than the others? Here.” I handed Leo the pen. “Push on that screw with the capped end of the pen. Um, push a little harder.” He did so, and with a soft, muffled click!, a panel in the wainscoting opened slightly. Leo opened it a little more and swore.

“It’s not as much as it might look,” I said, “But it should help, at least a little.”

While Leo was hypnotized by the contents of the secret cache, Ken asked, “Which books are we taking?”

“The Zane Grey and the C.S. Forester novels,” I said. “They were my father’s.”

Ken got busy packing the books in the box. Leo shut the panel. “I’ll count it after you go,” he said.

I glanced at Ken, who had his head down. I couldn’t help but steal a look at the papers on my desk. Leo saw me looking, and his eyes narrowed with mistrust. I shook my head and turned my back to the desk, so that I was facing Ken. Ken fitted the last two books in place, hefted the now-filled box, and stood up.

I told Leo, “That’s it. Don’t worry, I won’t be back, but if there’s anything I can do—”

Leo cut me off. “I don’t need anything from you.”

“Okay,” I said, and walked downstairs.

Before he closed the door on me and Ken, Leo bent down, close to my face, said growled, “Don’t imagine that this comes anywhere near to making us even.”

I opened my mouth to say something — I don’t even know what — but Leo shut the door and threw the deadbolt. The finality of that gesture was not lost on me. I stood there on the walkway, staring at the door, feeling the weight of her rejection. I couldn’t take it in.

What I was feeling was worse than divorce, I was sure. Leo/Theresa had dropped a gravestone on our marriage, on our relationship, on *everything* that ever existed between us. There was no resurrection to come; there was nothing to hope for — no reconciliation or forgiveness: just a rupture, beyond any possible repair. It felt like death.

 

---

 

I managed to hold it together until we got home. The three of us sat down in the Marston’s kitchen. Ken placed my box of books on the floor, next to my chair. After washing his hands, he brewed a pot of tea and put some cookies on a plate.

“These are my favorite cookies,” Lois told me with a smile. “Le Petit Ecolier — the little schoolboy. It’s a butter buscuit with a piece of milk chocolate on top.” I’d seen Lois smile while we were at the restaurant, but this was the first she smiled while looking at me.

“They are good,” I said, after taking a bite. I looked at the cookie and saw that I’d bitten the boy’s head off. “They’re really good with coffee.” Then I wondered, “Hmm. Did Celine like coffee? Will I?”

“No, she didn’t,” Lois said. “That’s something you can look forward to, as you grow up — developing the taste for it.”

I looked around us. Aside from the big appliances — the fridge, stove, and dishwasher —- and the cabinets, the room was full of unpacked boxes.My box of books was just one more carton in a room full of cartons. Lois bent down and picked out one of the books. She read the title: Riders of the Purple Sage.

“I’m sure I’ve heard of this one,” she said.

“That’s the only one I’ve read,” I told her. I reached down to pick another at random: The Trail Driver, by Zane Grey.

I held onto the book, unconsciously clutching it to my chest, while Ken recounted to Lois our adventure at my old house.

“Was it difficult?” Lois asked.

“I never knew how hard it was for her,” I replied.

“For who? Your wife?”

I nodded. I sat there and drew a long, heavy breath. “I mean, I thought everything was great. I was happy and hopeful. I assumed she felt the same. Now I understand that for her, it was completely different. For me, it was an adventure, a life full of thrills. For her, it was like she was trapped in the backseat of a car being driven by a crazy man.”

“That money…,” Ken began, “When we went there, your original idea was to keep it for yourself, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I confessed, and unaccountably, tears began running down my cheeks. I couldn’t understand why. The tears wouldn’t stop. I sniffled, and the tears started flowing faster.

Ken moved next to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and let me cry.

“I’m sorry,” I told them, once my tears subsided. “I’m really not a good person.”

“I’m not sorry,” he said. “I’m going to tell you two things: one is, that if — IF — this new little family is going to fall apart, we’d rather see it go to pieces sooner than later. Am I right, Lois? We’ve had enough heartbreak and bullshit, and we won’t stand for any more. And if our new little nucleus is going to break and fail, it would be better if it happened privately, between the three of us. We don’t want to have move again, to start our lives all over again. Am I right, Lois?”

I blinked and sniffled and turned my eyes to Lois, who nodded grimly. “Damn straight,” she replied, and she handed me some tissues.

“What’s the other thing?” I asked.

“In the end, you did the right thing, didn’t you?”

“I guess so,” I said. “But if it was the right thing, why does it feel so bad?”

Lois put her hand on my thigh and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I’ll show you your room, and you can set your books down. Then I’ll give you the grand tour, okay?”

A Minority Of One : 4 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

“Pards, are we in hell?” shouted Tex, huskily. “Or are we out? Boys, it’s passed away. We’re alive to tell the tale.”
— Zane Grey, The Trail Driver

---

 

Lois gave me the “grand tour” of the house. I’d already seen the kitchen. On the whole, the place was dated, but workable. It wasn’t awful. The backyard wasn’t huge, but there was enough space to set up a grill, to entertain, and to have a respectable garden. The garage, which was separate from the house, was in good repair. The house itself was a decent size, and didn’t need any obvious repairs. It had three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a clean and usable attic space, and a half-finished basement. By “half finished” I mean that the previous owner had begun work on a mother-in-law apartment, but stopped halfway. There were the beginnings of another bathroom, pieces of a kitchenette, a space that would be a laundry room once the walls were up, and a large empty space whose destiny seemed undecided.

The house was bigger, and in better shape, than I’d expected. I don’t keep up with houses and property values — that was always Theresa’s thing — but I did know that the Morstens’ house wasn’t in a very desirable neighborhood. This part of town was considered blue collar/working class. It had some decent old houses, like this one. The tradeoff was that your nice-looking, good-sized house, bought on a cop’s salary, was located in a not-so-nice part of town.

Another drawback: you couldn’t count the house as an investment. The market in this part of Lambeth was dead, and barring an economic miracle, it wasn’t coming back.

On the other hand, as far as the neighborhood was concerned, “not-so-nice” didn’t mean dangerous. It might seem scary if you didn’t know the neighborhood; which had partly depopulated after a load of factory jobs left town. The state of the houses could vary wildly on any given block: a pretty, well-tended house could sit next to a house that was boarded up, abandoned, and surrounded by an ugly chain-link fence.

To live there, you either had to take a long-shot bet on the future or learn to live with the contrasts of beauty and ruin.

Ken, I think, could manage it — if only Lois could. It wasn’t clear whether she was able.

Admittedly, they’d only been in the house for a week or so, but none of the boxes were unpacked, and there were boxes everywhere. You couldn’t walk through the living room at all. The beds weren’t assembled; the family had been sleeping on mattresses on the floor.

My bedroom, like Lois and Ken’s, was piled with boxes. There was a bed, unassembled, leaning against one corner. The mattress lay on the floor. I stepped into the room. The window had a view that included a piece of the house next door and a portion of the street. It was a nice size for a teenager’s room. I spotted a laptop on the floor, plugged into the wall. “Is that Celine’s laptop?” I asked.

“Yes,” Lois sighed. “Simon was pretty busy on that while he was here. He changed the password, but Ken should be able to reset it for you.”

I nodded, and we returned to the kitchen. “You know,” I told Lois, taking a page from the TV home-improvement shows Theresa loved to watch, “I don’t think either of these walls are load-bearing. We could blow them both out, and have a nice open-concept on this floor. Put in a big island here… and over there, a pair of french doors that open to a deck…”

“Yes,” Lois agreed. “I’ve had all those same thoughts. If we did some soundproofing and finished the basement, we could turn it into an income property.” She spoke about the improvements in a jaded tone, without enthusiasm or interest.

I very nearly opened my mouth to respond, but I bit my tongue just in time. I knew from the TV shows that (1) the zoning laws might not permit an income property, (2) there wasn’t enough daylight down there, (3) an apartment would need a separate entrance, and most of all (4) the rental market was as dead as the home-sale market. I didn’t say anything more, because I didn’t want to bring Lois any further down.

Lois was pretty far down. It’s not as though she never smiled, but generally she seemed utterly worn out. She wasn’t just tired; Lois was clearly depressed. If I couldn’t read it from her face and manner, the story was clearly told by the mass of unpacked boxes.

So all I said was, “It’s a nice house. It’s big. On the one hand, it has lots of potential, but at the same time it’s fine as it is.”

“It’s nothing like our last house,” Lois confided. “I loved that place. For me, it was our forever home. It had everything. Unfortunately, Celine pulled some pretty extreme sh— stunts.” Her face blanched at the memory. “We had to run out of town. Literally. We lost so much money when we sold that place. It was a fire sale, if you know what I mean.”

I did know what she meant.

Lois looked in my eyes and said, “I really appreciate the fact that there’s an adult in there, who knows what I’m talking about. You know, actions and consequences. Real estate values. Selling in a bad market.”

“I get it,” I assured her.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering. “In the bathroom upstairs, the bottom drawer is yours. All the stuff in there is Celine’s. I don’t know what you want to do with it — with her toiletries. There are three toothbrushes in the rack above the sink. The red one is yours.”

I must have made some kind of face, because Lois smiled slightly and said, “If it’s weird for you — using Celine’s toothbrush — we can get you a new one this afternoon.”

“Yeah…,” I said. “I guess.. I mean, I know it shouldn’t matter… technically we have the same mouth, the same germs, but… even so, I’d feel like I was using somebody else’s toothbrush. And it wasn’t just Celine’s, it was Simon’s, too. I— I just couldn’t do it. I’d really prefer my own.”

Lois laughed. “Did you ever read No Exit by Sartre?” I shook my head. “It starts off like this — a guy ends up in Hell, and the first thing he asks for is a toothbrush.”

“Um, I don’t feel like I’ve landed in Hell,” I told her. “I hope you don’t feel that way.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “God help me, sometimes I do.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her. She shrugged.

“It is what it is,” she replied. “I’ve always hated that phrase. It’s so inane. You might as well say potatoes are potatoes, but now — somehow— that stupid phrase fits exactly the way I feel. ‘It is what it is.’

“Celine had us on a downward spiral for years. Lately that spiral was turning faster and faster. Maybe now it will finally stop. I sure hope so.”

I wasn’t sure what to do or say. I figured I’d try a “girl” thing: I set my book down and offered a hug. She shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said. “Really, I’m fine. You know what? Let’s go back upstairs. I can show you some of Celine’s — some of your stuff. Clothes and things. Then we”ll see if you want to keep any of her toiletries. That way, we’ll know what we need to get later.”

I’d ready seen Celine’s room — my room. It didn’t have much character. There weren’t as many boxes as the other rooms. There were a few pieces of furniture: besides the unassembled bed, there was a desk, a bureau, and a little bookcase. I pointed to a door in the wall (blocked by boxes), and asked, “A closet?” Lois nodded. There was nothing on the walls — no posters or photos. There weren’t any knicknacks or stuffed animals or books or souvenirs lying around. Nothing that gave an idea of who used to live there.

The boxes were mostly marked “Celine clothes.” I opened one. I’ve never been interested in clothes, so it just looked like a box full of different colored cloths to me. One box had “Celine shoes” written on it. Another read “Celine boots,” “Celine winter,” “Celine sports”...

“Was Celine into sports?”

“No,” Lois scoffed. “She liked buying clothes. She liked stealing clothes. She didn’t care much about wearing them, though.”

My eyebrows went up at that. Lois quickly amended her statement: “I mean, she didn’t run around naked. That’s not what I meant. She just wore the same ugly things over and over. I’d show you pictures, but one day she burned every photograph we owned — not just pictures of her, but my wedding pictures, old family photos…”

“Did you have any digital photos?”

“Yes, but she blew those away as well. She had a lot of energy for her… for her projects, if you can call them that.” Lois shook her head.

“Someone told me that it had to do with her self-image, but I think she just didn’t care. She was an anarchist by nature: she didn’t value anything.” Lois stopped for a moment. “No — that makes her a nihilist. She was a nihilist and a narcissist, and maybe even a psychopath, if we’re handing out labels.”

I had no idea what to say, so I didn’t respond. Lois looked into my eyes and said, “What a lovely thing for a mother to say about her daughter, eh?”

I shrugged and offered, “If that’s what she was…”

“...that’s what she was,” Lois said, completing my phrase.

I looked at the computer. “I’m surprised that the Feds didn’t take that laptop.”

“Oh,” Lois said. “Nobody thought about it. We didn’t mention it.” She hesitated for a moment, then confided, “I don’t think that any of those people know what they’re doing. They don’t seem to care, and I don’t think they’re making the right kind of efforts.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, thinking of my experience with smirking Ron, the FBI agent.

“I’ll be interested in looking at the browser history,” I told her. “I’ve been wondering why and how Simon settled on me and my friends as targets.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough to answer,” Lois said. “You weren’t targets at all. It was random. I mean, think about how they knew that Simon was Celine.”

“I don’t know how they knew,” I told her.

“Sorry, I thought that the Feds had told you everything. Okay… it went like this: When Simon switched into Celine, there was a cop who saw it. No, let’s take a step back. Simon was… Simon was inside some man. Some random man. I don’t know his name or what he was up to. I’m sure Ken knows, if you’re interested. Anyway, this man had a gun. Again, I have no idea what led up to the moment, but here was Simon in the body of this man, holding a gun. This happened a few days before we moved here. There was a policewoman. She was chasing the man. She didn’t know anything about the Switcher or Simon or any of that. For her, this was just her ordinary line of duty — dealing with a threat to the community. She ran one way, her partner ran the other way, so they could head this guy off. And then, she cornered him. The policewoman had her gun drawn, so Simon shot her. Celine happened to be there, completely by accident, so Simon switched with her. Now Celine was in the body of the gunman.

“The shot knocked the policewoman down, but it didn’t kill her. She had… her bulletproof vest. It saved her. She witnessed the switch, but she didn’t understand it. In fact, when Simon, in the guise of Celine, ran off, the policewoman was glad. The little girl was out of danger, or so she thought.

“Now, the policewoman was lying on the ground, looking up at what she thought was a gunman, and fearing for her life. She fired at Celine and missed. Celine, for whatever stupid reason, fired back. More than once. The policewoman was shot four times — three of those shots were from Celine. The policewoman’s partner arrived on the scene, saw his partner on the ground, and Celine standing over her, shooting. Celine aimed her gun at him, so he shot her twice and killed her.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. What else could I say?

“Yeah,” Lois acknowledged. “I have to hope that in some way, that part of her is at peace somehow. If that’s at all possible. Sins forgiven and all that.” She swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. Then she looked back at me and said, “We’ve all had our shocks, though, haven’t we? Even you — it’s like your old self has died. In a way, anyway. Somebody else is living your life, and not the way you’d live it.

“We’ve all got to pick up whatever pieces we have and try to go on.”

I shrugged and gave what I hoped was an encouraging smile. I guess it worked, because Lois smiled back at me. The she glanced at her watch and gave a soft exclamation of surprise.

“I didn’t realize how late it was,” she said. “I’m going to start on dinner. Do you mind staying up here until it’s ready? I need a little time alone. I’ll call you when it’s ready. Ken will be coming home. You can just put your feet up, look through her stuff — your stuff, I mean. You can try to unpack, read your book, whatever you feel like doing.

“After dinner we’ll stop by CVS and pick up whatever you need — toothbrush, shampoo, all that.”

I nodded, but then I stopped her. “Wait — you said you didn’t think Simon targeted me and my friends, but I don’t see why you say that.”

“Oh, right! I didn’t finish. The Feds followed up on the shooting, a few days after the fact. They were on Simon’s trail. Actually, I think they’d already lost his trail, but something about the shooting fit a pattern. Well, the policewoman couldn’t give a good description of Celine, but a security camera caught the switch and the shootout, and a street camera caught Simon fleeing the scene as Celine. The Feds had a pretty easy time identifying her, because Celine was well known to the local police.

“Even so, each of those things took time. It was a week before the Feds got here. They were heading here, to the house. She spotted them and took off on her bike. They chased her through the streets. She was running, looking for someone to switch into. I guess Simon is good at running — I mean evasion — and on a bike he could cut through alleys and footpaths. The Feds were in cars.

“That’s why I don’t think that Simon targeted you. It was opportunistic. He was just running. He saw the barbecue smoke, smelled the steaks, knew there’d be people…”

“I guess so,” I agreed. “Still, I’m sorry for what happened to you and Ken… and to Celine as well. No matter what she was like, or what she did, she didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Lois nodded and looked away for a moment. Then she said, “Simon got Celine killed. He hurt all of us: the three of us, your friends, that man the police shot… Oh my God, this Simon guy… I thought Celine was a terror: but she was an angel compared to Simon.”

I nodded, and Lois turned and went downstairs. I found that I was still clutching the Zane Grey novel to my chest, like a security blanket. I didn’t feel ready to start looking through clothes, so I lay on the mattress on the floor, and started reading.

My father used to love Zane Grey’s stories. He read them over and over, and tried unsuccessfully to get me to read them. After he died, my mother insisted that I take them all. “Read one, at least,” she said. “It will help you understand your father, as a person.” With that motivation, I read Riders of the Purple Sage. I remember that I liked it well enough, though it didn’t stick in my memory. It sure didn’t tell me anything at all about my dad.

This book, though, The Trail Driver, was different. I fell into it. Time disappeared. I honestly forgot where I was and who I am, I was so engrossed. When Ken appeared at my door and said, “Dinner’s ready,” I almost jumped out of my skin. He chuckled.

“Good book, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It started off a little hokey… he tries to write in this Texas accent, so you have to ignore that. And the racial stereotypes… But once this mysterious character, Reddie Bayne, shows up, the story gets a lot more interesting. There’s some kind of secret about him… about his life before he joins the cattle run.”

“Sounds like you,” Ken commented with a smile. “Mysterious, interesting, a secret past.”

“Aw, shucks, pard. I don’t know nothin’ about horses, though!”

 

---

 

We ate in silence — at first. I could see they were both suffering. It was clear that Celine’s wildness and her death had beaten the life out of both of them. Lois was no longer smiling; she was in a state of melancholy. Neither of them could find much to say, so I tried tossing this ball into the air: “In that book I was reading, these cowboys are driving cattle, and they’re near a stream. One of them asks for help getting his boots off. He says he hasn’t taken them off in a week. Do you think that’s possible?”

Lois clicked her tongue and said, “Back in those days, I guess a man could wash himself once a month and count himself quite hygienic.”

“Those days?” Ken repeated with a laugh. “Those days are still among us. If you’d ever smelled a policeman’s locker room, you’d know that.”

“Wow,” I said. “It’d be tough having a partner who wasn’t clean.”

“Tell me about it!” Ken rejoined.

“This reminds me of something I read once… where was it?” Lois chimed in. “This woman couldn’t get her little boy, her son, to wash himself. They’d have terrible fights. She tried everything: punishments, promises, treats… but nothing worked. Finally, one day she gave up. Completely. She stopped trying, stopped talking about bathing... Just stopped.”

“Then what happened?”

A smile briefly appeared on Lois’ face. “After a few days, the boy came home from school crying. The other kids told him that he stank. From then on, she never even had to ask. He took showers every day, on his own.”

We all laughed.

Well, sure, it wasn’t the most scintillating conversation, but it got everybody talking, and by the end of the meal, Lois was smiling, Ken was relaxed, and I was beginning to think that I’d landed pretty well.

“Do you have any tools?” I asked. “I think, after I clean up here, I can put our beds together. It won’t take long.”

Lois said, “If that’s the case, I’ll do the dishes!” Ken fetched his toolbox, and forty minutes later, both beds were assembled. Lois found the sheets and bedspreads. I offered to help her, but she pointed out, “You’re all dirty and dusty — both of you! Get cleaned up and — oh! ready for bed!”

“It’s too early,” I said. “Could I take a shot at setting up the TV?”

After an hour, I had to give up. I couldn’t find the cables. Also, with all the boxes around, there was no good place to put the TV or to sit and watch it. To say nothing of the fact that there was no way to see where the cable hookup came out of the wall.

“Okay,” I said to Ken. “I give up. You get the first shower. Tomorrow I’ll tackle the kitchen.”

“I think you better take the first shower,” Ken replied. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

He was right. I was running on fumes. Once he said it, I felt an achy tiredness all over.

I trudged upstairs, got in the shower, and turned on the spray. It was glorious. I loved the hot water. I loved getting clean again. And the moment I slipped between the clean sheets, I felt myself sinking into dreamland.

On my way down to the world of dreams, a sudden realization hit me. Somewhere in the back of my brain, the dots connected and a picture emerged. In my mind’s eye I saw Ken’s hand, holding his phone, and on his phone was a map. On that map were two pins: one for my old house, and one for the Morsten’s house. My old house is nowhere near my new house, I observed. If the Feds chased Simon from here, on a bike, he would never have gone that far, if he was simply looking for a new victim.

Simon had targeted us. He wasn’t running at random; he made a serious, concerted effort to reach my address. It was an uphill ride; it ran against the grain.

I lay on my back, mouth open, astonished. It wasn’t supposition: it was a the clear fact. But what did it mean? Why would he target me? Or any of the four of us? None of us were famous, none of us were known, not even locally. I didn’t even have a police record. It didn’t make much sense. In fact, it made no sense whatsoever.

I was so tired, though, that my thoughts grew fuzzy and confused.

A moment later, sleep washed over me like a wave, and I slept until morning.

A Minority Of One : 5 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

“But, Reddie, don’t you want a man to be honest?”

“Not— not when he knows too much.”

— Zane Grey, The Trail Driver

---

 

As Leo, I was a late sleeper. Up late at night, up late in the morning. It suited me, since (as my friends rightly said) I never held a regular job. Maybe it was laziness, maybe it was metabolism. Whatever it was, it worked for me. I never believed that old saw about the early bird catching the worm. Who wants to catch worms, anyway?

However, that morning I discovered that as Celine, I was an early bird. Ken and Lois didn’t warn me. I’m sure it didn’t occur to them to tell me, but at 5:30 exactly, my eyes popped open, and I was wide awake. So awake that there was no falling back to sleep. After a visit to the bathroom, I discovered that Lois had laid out an outfit for me to wear: shorts, a top, underwear, and flip-flops. She must have fished them out of the boxes while I was sleeping.

I appreciated the gesture. The world of “girl” was so new to me, I didn’t feel ready to grapple with clothing choices. If left to my own devices, I would have grabbed the first thing that I happened to see. My wardrobe as Leo was very casual, and everything “went with” everything else — at least as far as I could tell. I’m pretty sure that I never spent more than fifteen seconds deciding what to wear. The business of color choices and finding “the right thing” seemed like a huge waste of time. If Lois was going to choose for me, so much the better.

Sure, I’ll need to learn about clothes eventually. Maybe next month? At any rate, it wasn’t at the top of my to-do list..

After getting dressed, I quietly descended the stairs to the kitchen. Happily, the stairs didn’t creak or squeak, which is always great. Once in the kitchen, I ate a handful of granola and swallowed a few mouthfuls of milk, right out of the carton. (Don’t tell anyone!)

My intention was to get a few calories into me while I looked into making a real breakfast, but to my surprise, the small amount I’d eaten took care of my hunger entirely — an unexpected benefit of being so much smaller than I used to be!

I sat at the kitchen table and returned to reading The Trail Driver. Reddie, the enigmatic character I mentioned earlier, was in torment. He had a secret, a terrible secret that he claimed “always ruined everything” once it became known. On account of this secret, Reddie was always on the run. And yet, he seemed like a perfectly good person; a likeable, honest, dependable person. What could this secret be?

At last, unable to bear it any longer, he confessed to his boss, Mr. Brite (Note: I’ve corrected the spelling to make it more readable):

"Mr. Brite, I— I'm not what I— I look— at all."
 

"No?— Well, as you're a likely-lookin' youngster, I'm sorry to hear it. Why ain't you?"
 

"Because I'm a girl."
 

Brite wheeled so suddenly that his horse jumped. He thought he had not heard the lad correctly.
 

But Bayne's face was turned and his head drooped.
 

"Wha-at?" he exclaimed, startled out of his usual composure.

I, too, was taken completely unawares. I didn’t jump like Mr. Brite, but I did exclaim “Whoa!” out loud. Then I burst into laughter. Honest and truly, I didn’t expect it at all. I knew Reddie had a secret, but never in a thousand years would I have guessed that the young, good-looking cowboy was really a girl. I had no more suspicion than Mr. Brite had.

Who knew that a western novel would have a twist like that!

Ken came into the kitchen, dressed in his police uniform, just at that moment. “What’s up?” he asked, full of curiosity.

I showed him the cover of the book, to give him some context, and explained that Reddie, that enigmatic character, was actually a girl disguised as a boy, and not only disguised, but working as the “horse wrangler” on a huge Texas cattle run.

“Huh,” Ken grunted. “That sounds about as confusing as our lives are, right about now.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “that’s so.”

A smile played on his lips. “Maybe that book will give you some insights, Celine.”

“Maybe so, Dad,” I answered playfully.

He came back in the same vein: “Celine, your mother wants a hot breakfast: pancakes and eggs and so on. I’m going to stop at Big D’s to get it. Do you want to come with me? That way, I can drop you back here with the food and head on in to work. Save me a little time.”

“Sure!”

“Just one thing—” he hesitated. “What did you say Reddie’s job was? House wrangler?”

“No, horse wrangler. I said hawse because it’s spelled that way in the book.”

“Huh. Why on earth would they need a horse wrangler on a cattle run?”

I shrugged, put my bookmark in the page, and followed him outside.

After we pulled out of the driveway, Ken thanked me for assembling the beds. “Things like that, they make a big difference. Sleeping on the floor — even on a mattress — that’s survival-level. Sleeping in a bed is civilized.”

“We did it together,” I pointed out.

“True, but until last night I haven’t had the energy or inclination for it,” he confessed. “Once you started, it was easy. It’s that way with a lot of things: getting started is the hardest part.”

After a short silence, I told him, “You know, before, in the kitchen, I was being ironic — I was trying to be funny — when I called you Dad.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just as strange for me to call you Celine. You look like Celine, but aside from the physical, you’re nothing like her at all. Still, we have to keep calling each other those names until it’s second nature.”

“Okay, Dad.”

We both smirked, but the funny had already gone out of it. Just that abruptly, it wasn’t ironic any more. Already, it was who we are now, the roles we’d been dropped into.

After we fetched the food, he left me at the end of the driveway. I waved goodbye to him as he drove off. Then I smiled hello at the old man next door. He was in his front yard, watering his flowers, watering his lawn. “That your Dad?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“He’s a cop?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’m Mr. Waters,” he said. He gestured with his hose. “See? Waters. You’ll never forget my name.”

I fought the urge to call him Mr. Hoser — It would be rude, especially after he was being nice. Plus, there was no point in offending him: he was our neighbor. He also wasn’t stupid.

“I saw what you were thinking there,” he told me, and we both laughed. “I’m glad you folks moved in. I was afraid that house was going to stay empty, like so many others. Such a nice house! And you look like nice people.”

“I think we are,” I said. “We try to be. You have to excuse me, though. I want to get this food to my mother, while it’s hot. It was nice to meet you, Mr. —” I hung fire, until he laughed, and raised the hose a bit, as if to spray me. “I’m Celine, Mr. Waters. We’ll be seeing each other a lot, I’m sure!”

It was funny, wasn’t it, how behaving like this, playing the part of a teenage girl, suddenly seemed so natural. Still, I’d only interacted with adults so far. I doubted that interacting with other kids would be as simple.

Lois hadn’t yet come downstairs, so I put the food on plates, and poured the coffee into a mug. I couldn’t find a tray, so I awkwardly carried the food upstairs. On a box near her bed I managed to lay out the food without spilling anything. The flatware clanking woke her.

“You’re hired,” she said, and smiled.

“I went with Dad to get this for you,” I told her.

“Dad,” she repeated, deadpan.

“Yes, Mom,” I replied, in a tentative tone.

“Ohhh,” she sighed, and put her hand to her chest. “It’s going to take a while to get used to that. It’s still an effort for me to call you ‘Celine’. Hopefully, soon, my heart won’t break each time.”

I couldn’t help myself. I mugged, rolling my eyes and groaning, “Oh, Mom,” the way any teenage girl would, reacting to her mother’s melodrama.

She didn’t laugh or even smile. She fixed her eyes on me and said, “Don’t play me.”

“I’m not!” I protested. “We have to get used to calling each other these names.”

“Yeah,” she acknowledged. “I know we do. Doesn’t make it easy.” She tapped her finger on the impromptu table, considering, and in a gentler tone told me, “I think — at least for me — it’s way too early for jokes.”

I left her to her breakfast and went back downstairs to the kitchen. The exchange with Lois reminded me of Theresa’s bouts with depression. Sometimes she’d be normal, happy, even upbeat, and soon after she’d be hostile, suspicious, angry. She was convinced that her depression was strictly internal, self-contained — that it was a state affecting only her — but that was never the case. Desolation oozed out of her, like a dark miasma. It seeped into everything. It followed me, clung to me, like a cold, thick, dirty fog.

I was determined to not let Lois’ leaden state affect me, the way Theresa’s had. I shook it off before the negativity got under my skin. Seriously, I literally shook myself, the way a dog shakes off water. I wasn’t fool enough to think I could fix Lois, but at least I could work on the environment. Improvements in the home would help all three of us.

I’ve never done much cleaning in my life, but I have watched other people do it. That’s how I knew that the first thing to tackle was the fridge. I tried to pull it out of its niche. It wouldn’t come. I knew I wasn’t very strong, but the fridge was on wheels — it ought to roll forward. I tried rocking it. I pushed, then pulled. I tried to tip it backward to unstick it, but it didn’t shift, not even a micron. Sitting on the floor, I faced the refrigerator, spread my legs, and braced my feet on the wall to either side of it. After hooking my fingers underneath, I pulled with every ounce of strength in my skinny, thirteen-year-old body. Nothing happened. It didn’t budge. Not even a little.

I was still struggling, grunting with frustration and effort, when Lois came downstairs. Our combined strength, and her better leverage, got the fridge away from the wall. The floor behind was dark and filthy. The back of the fridge itself was matted with dust. Lois got the vacuum and went after everything that could be sucked up while I took a bucket of water and cleaner and washed the outside of the box. Standing on a chair, I scrubbed at the grime on top. I had to keep changing the water, it became murky so quickly.

“I don’t think they ever cleaned back here!” Lois exclaimed. She scrubbed the floor behind the fridge until it was so clean, it looked new. Then we pushed the fridge back in place. I was about to attack the inside of the fridge, when Lois stopped me. “Let me do that. You can vacuum the tops of the cabinets, then the insides. You can stand on the counter. We’ll wash that later. If we put the vacuum on a chair, the hose will reach all the way up.” I pulled one of the kitchen chairs over toward the cabinets, and slipped out of my flip-flops. Lois caught sight of my feet, and stopped me by putting her hand gently on my arm. She said, “Wait! Go wash your feet… Celine.”

There was a long pause before she got my name out. I could hear the effort behind it.

“My feet?” I asked.

“They’re filthy,” she pointed out. I looked at my feet, and the soles were black.

“When did that happen?” I asked. “All I did was—”

“All you did was walk outside. Go sit on the edge of the tub and wash them. Then you can stand on the counter. I’ll wipe off the chair you stood on earlier.”

We spent the entire day cleaning that kitchen. The stove took even longer than the fridge. I mistakenly believed that everything was essentially clean before we started. In my estimation, an hour (at most!) of wiping things down would have been enough, and by now we should have finished putting all the pots and pans and dishes away. I couldn’t have been more wrong! We didn’t get as far as putting anything away! All we managed to do was clean the fridge, the upper cabinets, and the stove.

This became the model for our early days, the first few weeks: They were days of cleaning and unpacking. I’d go with Ken to pick up some breakfast. I’d chat briefly with Mr. Waters. Then Mom and I (yes, she didn’t wince any more when I called her ‘Mom’) would clean and put things away.

Somewhere in the middle of the fourth day, we took a break. I’d been cleaning windows. It took several tries before I learned to do it the way Lois wanted. At first, our ideas of clean were widely divergent. Then I came to understand that I never really knew what clean was — until now.

During our break, Lois asked me, “Did you ever clean house before this?”

“Why? Am I that good at it?”

“Well, no, honestly, you’re not. You have the tendency to stop before you’re done, but that’s not what I meant. I’ve never seen a teenager who cleaned without being asked, and I’ve never seen a teenager who didn’t mind being corrected.”

“Well, you know I’m not really a teenager.”

She shrugged, as if that were obvious. I thought for a moment, and told her, “It isn’t as though I like cleaning, but I feel the need to contribute. The thing is, the more we clean, the more I see that needs cleaning. Like, I’m cleaning the windows, and on the third window I realize that the whatchamacallit — the sill? The flat part between the outside window and the inside window — it’s filthy. So I clean that. Then I see that the blinds are dirty… It’s like it never ends.”

“Yep. That’s how it is,” she agreed. “It never ends.”

We hauled the winter clothing, the Christmas decorations, and other seasonal items up to the attic. That was a huge effort for me. It was difficult, getting used to how little strength I had now.

Lois consoled me. “Sure, you’re not as strong as you were as Leo, but you’re pretty strong for a girl your size. You’re wiry. And you’re fast. At least, Celine was fast… so you must be fast.” She faltered for a moment, looking down, but she quickly recovered. “You ought to go out for some team, you know, when school starts. Some sport. Have you played any sports in the past?”

I hadn’t. Neither had the real Celine. So, in an attempt to see if I had any aptitude or inclination for any sport in particular, the three of us went to the park early Sunday morning. We brought all the sports paraphernalia we could get our hands on: tennis rackets and balls, a basketball, a baseball and gloves, and a soccer ball.

It was an uncanny, disturbing experience. I’ve touched all of those things as Leo: I’ve played games of tennis and basketball. I’ve played in softball games. I wasn’t particularly good at any of them, but they were familiar to me. I’ve kicked a soccer ball once or twice, but now all of those things were foreign to me. There was zero muscle memory. Admittedly, as Leo, I didn’t have any great skills to start with, but the tiny bit that I *did* have didn’t transfer to my new body.

Ken and I started off playing catch. I hate to say it, but I threw like a girl, and I couldn’t catch to save my life.

When I tried to dribble the basketball, it kept bouncing back higher than my head. The ball seemed to have a mind of its own; it moved more than I meant it to.

It was pretty confusing, and more than a little frustrating. “It’s like I’ve never done any of these things before!” I exclaimed. “But I have done them before! All of them!”

“Not in this body, hon,” Lois said.

“Don’t worry,” Ken told me. “You have plenty of time to learn whatever you like, and with practice, you can be good at any of them. Celine was always quick and coordinated.”

Lois added, “Keep in mind that these aren’t your only choices. We can take a look at what else your high school offers.”

“My high school?” I echoed. The blood drained from my face as I said it. I’d kind of blocked out that part of my impending destiny.

“Yes. They probably have track and cross-country… field hockey…”

Ken chimed in with “Lacrosse, swimming, gymnastics…”

Lois added, “Maybe they have a dance team — do you think you’d like to dance?”

Ken finished up, with a teasing grin, “Of course, there’s always cheerleading.”

“Oh, come on!” I protested.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Lois suggested. “It’s a great way to meet boys.”

“Boys?” I repeated weakly.

“Or girls, as the case may be,” Ken added helpfully. Lois shot him a cautioning look, and he gave her a shrug.

To make a long story short, the only sport we tried that seemed like fun, the only sport I didn’t totally suck at, was soccer. I can’t say that I was good. I certainly wasn’t a natural, but it somehow seemed to make sense in a way that the others didn’t.

“We’ll see if there’s a summer soccer team. Would you like that?” Lois asked

“Yes, I think so,” I replied. “I’d like to be good at that.”

“It will also give you a chance to meet some other girls your age before school starts,” she said.

I froze for a moment. Spending time with Ken and Lois was good. Talking with Mr. Waters was fine. But socializing, making friends, blending in with girls my age? That seemed a step too far. For sure, I couldn’t talk with “girls my age” about property values, or “blowing out the walls to make an open concept design.” They weren’t likely to want to clean house with me.

“What do girls my age talk about?” I asked.

“Oh, hey,” Ken interjected, as if he hadn’t heard. “What’s happening in that book of yours? How’s Reddie doing?”

“Oh,” I said, smiling. "Right now there’s a bad guy after her. He wants to marry her.” For some reason, I blushed as I said it.

“Mmm,” Ken said. “Girls your age talk about stuff like that.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure whether he was teasing me until he finished the thought: “Maybe you could visit the library and ask them what books a girl your age might like. That could give you some conversational material.”

Lois said, “Unfortunately, we’re out of touch with that world. Celine was never interested in the things that other girls do.” She smiled and ruffled my hair. “Oh my God, look at you! You’re scared to death, aren’t you!”

“I’m not scared,” I lied. “I’m just a little worried about fitting in.”

“So is every other girl your age,” Lois replied. “Don’t worry — you’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out. All you need is one friend to help you find your way in.”

I nodded, but I was still nervous. Weird, huh? As a child, I never experienced that kind of anxiety. I never had the dream where you find yourself at school in your pajamas.

I can’t say that I always felt ready for everything. I can’t pretend that the weight of anticipation never bothered me. And yet, I never felt this kind of anxiety before. Even so, facts were facts: I was now a thirteen-year-old girl, nervously fearing high school, as if it were a completely new and unknown world for me.

When we got home, it was still morning, about a quarter to eleven. Ken decreed that today there would be no cleaning, unpacking, or anything remotely resembling work, so I decided to take a bike ride before lunch. Ken had recovered Celine’s bike soon after Simon ditched it, but I hadn’t tried riding it yet. I had to get used to riding again: it was awkward at first, but soon I was wheeling around town like a pro. It was a very enlightening ride: Even though I’ve lived in Lambeth for twenty years, this part of town was unfamiliar to me. All the streets, houses, and trees were new to me.

Just when I judged that it was time to head back, I came upon Hertford Hill: a long, straight, gentle downhill slope. The street was smooth, in good repair, and there wasn’t a car on it. Perfect for flying! I pulled onto that street and let myself coast. It was simple, beautiful. It put me immediately in the zone. Gradually I picked up speed, with zero effort on my part. I felt free, unencumbered. I forgot all about the Switcher, I forgot about being a little girl, I forgot about high school and fitting in. It was just me and the hill and the rushing air. It was everything.

A woman on a bicycle suddenly wheeled up a side street. How irritating! If she pulled out, she would break my momentum, interfere with my perfect downhill glide. She had come up quickly, but she stopped abruptly so she wouldn’t cut me off. She put her feet on the ground, which made it clear she was staying put for a moment. How considerate! She sat there on her bicycle, and looked up at me. I saw her jaw drop open, but I wasn’t paying enough attention to recognize her. Honestly, I didn’t really look at her at all. I shot past her like a bullet, and left her farther and farther behind, going faster and faster, until I heard her shout, “Leo! Uh — Celine! Leo — Celine, wait!”

It was Meredith. Damn it! Not that I didn’t want to see Meredith — or the Max inside her — I just didn’t want to stop. My first time on a bicycle in how long, and she has to stop me? Now that I was flowing and flying, I didn’t want to stop and turn back. Why was she just sitting there? Why didn’t she roll down to meet me?

Swearing like the man I used to be, I gently applied the brakes and carefully squealed to a stop. I stepped off the bike and walked it back to where she was.

“Hey, what time is it?” I called to her. “I don’t have a watch.”

“Twenty to twelve,” she said. “And hello to you, too.”

“Hello, yeah, sorry! The thing is, I need to get home before noon. Can you come with me, but stop just before we get there? We can talk on the way.”

Meredith frowned. “Do you not want to see me? Are you not supposed to see me? What’s the deal here?”

“I do want to see you and talk with you,” I told her. “But I need to get home for lunch. I’m trying to be on time. Also, I don’t know how Ken and Lois feel about my seeing you. I’m going to have to ask them.”

“Are you shitting me?” she asked, incredulous. “You’re 42 years old! You don’t need to ask your so-called parents. Seriously!”

“I’m thirteen,” I retorted, “in case you hadn’t noticed. By the way, have YOU looked in the mirror lately, Mrs. Shearpen? You’re not a forty-year-old man any more either!”

Meredith sighed. “I know, I know. I get it. Believe me, I get it.”

“So, yes, I have to ask my parents. I don’t want to screw things up with my new family. They’re good people.” I looked at her. “Are you okay, though? Are you adjusting?”

“No, Leo, I’m not ‘adjusting.’ I’m not adjusting at all. I can’t handle this. I can’t deal with being stuck like this — as a woman — and not just any woman, but Meredith, specifically.”

I shifted uneasily. Meredith wasn’t moving at all, and I really did need to get home. So I told her, “Hey, um, we really have to move while we talk. I’m not going to be late: I need to get home before lunch. And another thing — don’t call me ‘Leo’ — my name is Celine, okay?”

Meredith looked at me as though I’d asked her to do something that was utterly insane and completely outrageous. Also, she hadn’t budged an inch.

“I’m going to start moving,” I told her. “If you want to talk with me, you have to pedal, too.”

She scoffed, but turned her bike around and quickly caught up with me.

“Where is everyone living now?” I asked. She scowled. It was a little disconcerting. Max had always been a very positive, smiley guy. So far, he was turning out to be a pretty grouchy woman.

“Meredith — or Theresa — is mostly at your old house, with Theresa — Leo.”

“Look, Meredith—” I interrupted. “Just call each person by the body they’re in. I”m Celine. You’re Meredith. Otherwise we’ll get all mixed up, and we’ll end up saying crazy things in front of people who don’t understand. Okay? So you’re saying that Leo and Theresa are living together? Or is Theresa just spending a lot of time there?”

“She’s pretty much there all the time,” she answered, morosely. Her tone made me glance at her in surprise. Meredith caught my look and read the question on my face. “Don’t ask me whether they’re in a relationship. I don’t know who sleeps where, and I don’t want to know.”

“You’re at your house, all alone, then?”

“Yes. And I don’t like it. Everything is too complicated. I want to simplify things.”

“Simplify how?”

“I need to get rid of all the distractions, and start simple: me, in a small apartment, alone. I need to be able to concentrate and focus on my future.”

“You can’t focus on your future now?”

“No! Like I said: everything is complicated! Even the things that should be the easiest! I mean think: Now that Meredith — Now that Theresa and I are both women, we can’t be married.”

“Sure you can — if you want to.”

“I don’t want to! I’m not a prude, but right now the idea of what kind of sex I could be having, or should be having, and with who, it's too… well… it’s too… Let’s just say that as a concept I can’t deal with it.”

Meredith was reacting so physically to the topic, that her bicycle was wobbling badly. I tried to throw her a life line by changing topic. “So you want to get a small apartment, all by yourself?”

“Yes. That’s the best thing to do. I want to sell my house and everything in it, split the money with Theresa, and the three of us could move in together.”

“Move in together? You just said that you want to live alone.”

“Just until we can work out all the legal and financial stuff.”

“Are Leo and Theresa up for that?”

She scowled again. She was doing that a lot. “It’s hard to talk to them about it. It’s hard to talk with them about anything! They’re pretty strongly in denial.”

I almost said something about the pot calling the kettle, but I bit my tongue instead. It wouldn’t be helpful to say it, even though Meredith clearly didn’t have much of a grip on the situation herself.

“Why do you want to live with them?” I asked. “I mean, after all, they’re right next door.”

“I don’t want to live with them!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you listening to me? It’s a temporary step! I want to get the two of them settled, and then I’ll get the hell out of here! Lambeth is a dead end! I want to divide my assets with Theresa. Everything. Then I can leave with a clear conscience.”

“If you want to leave, why didn’t you just leave when we were all in that military base? They would have given you a whole new identity and whatnot. Wouldn’t they?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes. Yes, they would have done what you said, but I couldn’t just walk away from my life and from — from — my wife’s life.” Her face was working, betraying an emotional struggle that I didn’t quite understand.

“Also,” she continued, “what the Feds were offering was a pittance. It wasn’t a generous resettlement at all. As Meredith, I get a hell of a lot more from from Max being dead.”

“What do you mean ‘dead’?”

“They declared Max dead,” she said. “I’m the beneficiary on the insurance policy, the 401k, all of his — my — assets.” I blinked several times, but said nothing.

We pedaled in silence for a few blocks. I asked the time once again.

“Also, the cleaning business,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard me. “Did I mention that? As Meredith, I own that. I want to turn it over to Theresa. Completely. As things stand right now, I have to help out. I have to talk to clients. And I have to CLEAN, if you can believe that!”

I nodded, but I didn’t let on that I’d been cleaning all week, myself. Voluntarily. “Can’t she hire some help?” I asked.

“She *has* help,” Meredith agreed. “She can hire more, if she needs to. She’s already got fifteen employees, didn’t you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know. I thought it was just her and Theresa. When she talked about the Ponzi guy’s house, she said it was just the two of them.”

Meredith stopped. “Okay, first of all, he is not ‘the Ponzi guy’.”

“Theresa said he was running a Ponzi scheme.”

Meredith hesitated. “Okay — Okay, yes, she did say that. But his name isn’t Ponzi.”

“What is it?”

Meredith, red-faced with irritation, replied, “It’s Shushamusha something! I don’t know! Sha-sha-whatever! It’s some kind of foreign name, Italian, I think. Who cares?”

“Sorry!” I said, my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve!”

“Anyway, okay: So... for that house… The problem with that place, and that guy — okay, let’s call him the Ponzi guy — is that he runs his business from his home. It’s a financial firm, so he requires background checks on everyone who sets foot there. Right now, only Meredith and Theresa are authorized to enter, so I have to go. And it’s a lot of work! The place is enormous! We go there three times a week.”

“Three times a week?” I repeated. “Does it get that dirty?”

“No, it doesn’t. The thing is, the guy has loads of money and he likes to think he’s a clean freak. But he’s not. He just likes to spend money. So we go there five hours, three times a week.”

“What’s this guy like?”

“I don’t know — he’s just some guy. I haven’t actually seen him. I never met him. It’s always his assistant — or whatever she is — who talks to me. He leaves me alone. I think he’s afraid of people, or something. He’s — uh — he’s — well — sweet — he’s sweet on Theresa.” The last four words came out in a rush. Meredith glanced at me, probably thinking I might be jealous. Oddly, I didn’t feel a thing.

“Does that bother you?” she asked, watching my face closely.

“No,” I told him truthfully. “Anyway, now it’s not Theresa any more, not really. It’s Meredith. Does that bother *you*?”

I probably shouldn’t have said it. It was a reflex. His remark about Theresa was a jab at me. Mechanically, I took a jab back at him. I wish I hadn’t. It really ignited a fire in Meredith. She looked at me, jaw set in anger, then struck back with, “Yes! Yes, it does bother me! It bothers me a lot! But did you know that when Theresa was Theresa, she and the Ponzi guy were screwing? Did you know that? Does that bother you?”

I didn’t answer at first. Her question seemed to have come from another life, another world. Almost as if it was simply a movie I’d seen, or someone else’s life — not a life I’d recently lived. Honestly, though, I felt like I should be angry. I ought to feel betrayed. But I didn’t. I felt something nebulous and vague that I couldn’t name, a feeling like déjà vu, but weaker, more distant.

“I’m more worried about high school,” I found myself saying. Meredith scowled and shook her head. She took another shot, from a different direction.

“Did you tell your new mommy and daddy about your scheme?” she asked in a sneering tone.

“What scheme?”

Meredith scoffed. “You know what I’m talking about! Your scheme! The scheme that you wanted to talk about at the barbecue.”

A chill ran over me. “No, that was just an idea. It wasn’t all there. Did you guys tell anyone…?”

“Nobody mentioned it to the FBI, if that’s what you’re worried about. But Leo told Ken and Lois that you were cooking up something big and bad.”

Damn! “Well, in any case, that idea is stone-cold dead,” I interrupted, dismissively.

“Still, you were working on some kind of scam, weren’t you?”

“It was half-assed, half-baked,” I told her, “And I don’t want to talk about it. I’m focusing on my future, like you said. Also, I notice that you complain about having to clean, but it’s only been three times so far, right? Fifteen hours?”

She looked at me in exasperation. “Fine! Yes, fifteen hours. Still, it’s house cleaning! I’m a high-level programmer! I shouldn’t be wasting my time doing that shit! But it isn’t just ‘fifteen hours’ like you say. I have to clean my own house as well! Meredith — I mean, Theresa — is always popping in and ragging on me about the state of our house, so I’m cleaning nonstop. Seems like I’m doing nothing BUT cleaning!”

“Hmm,” I said, “She’s really cracking the whip, huh?” I fought to keep the smirk off my face, but I could see from her reaction that I didn’t succeed.

My house came into view, so I stopped in my tracks. Meredith stopped and stared at me, red faced.

“You were working up some job,” she insisted. “Some kind of scam. It was all about that Ponzi guy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted in a low voice. “But this isn’t the time or place… not that I want to talk about it — at all! Anyway, it was very vague. It wasn’t viable. It was full of holes; it was unworkable. Besides, what do you care?”

Meredith shrugged. “Just curious,” she said, and let the question drop. I absolutely did not want to talk about it. It was exactly the kind of thing that could ruin my situation with the Morstens. Talking with Meredith about it, especially out here on the street, was a terrible idea. She was so incautious, anyone could overhear. I really didn’t need or want that complication.

“I think you better turn back here,” I told her. “That’s my house right up there.”

She gave me a wounded look. “Are you ashamed of me or something? You know that I met them — your parents. I think they liked me.”

“I just have to ask first.”

“Would you? Please? It would be nice if I could come over and talk to someone else about all of this. Someone normal, someone who knows what’s going on! I’m losing my mind, and the other two aren’t helping at all.”

I promised I would, and she turned her bike around. Before she pedaled away, she said, “Don’t call me, though. You’re still persona non grata with Theresa — I mean, Leo. A call from you at the wrong moment could touch off a raging volcano.”

I shrugged, not sure how to respond, so she said, “I’ll get in touch with you.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

I watched her pedal away, then pushed my way toward home. Our conversation was pretty surprising. It seemed that, in dealing with our four new lives, I was coming out ahead.

A Minority Of One : 6 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

Le mauvais goût mène au crime. [Bad taste leads to crime.]
— Stendhal

---

 

I jumped off the bike the moment my wheels hit the driveway. Mr. Waters was sitting on his stoop, smoking a cigarette. His watch was so large, I could see the hands pointing at five to twelve. I was still on time.

I called out, “Hey, did you change your name?” Mr. Waters frowned, not getting the joke. So I added, “Are you Mr. Smokes now?”

He laughed, gestured with his cigarette, and shrugged.

“Have you made any friends here yet?” he asked.

“Aside from you?”

“That’s nice,” he said, “but no — I meant friends your own age. Listen, the reason I ask is that my sister’s coming for a few days, and she’s bringing her daughter — my niece. She’s about your age. Thirteen, right? Maybe the two of you can keep each other company. What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Will she have a bike to ride?”

“I’ll call my sister and make sure she does,” he promised.

 

---

 

Over lunch, the three of us talked about Meredith. Ken and Lois were quite interested, and I noticed their energy got a visible boost at the prospect of helping someone else.

“She’s having a LOT of trouble adjusting,” I told them. “She was pretty touchy and grouchy.”

“It must be difficult,” Ken observed.

“Poor thing!” Lois exclaimed. “I liked her. I felt she was genuine.”

“Yes, she was the best of the bunch,” Ken threw in.

Lois added, “The other two, Leo and Theresa, they have a bad dynamic. There’s some really negative energy happening there. I felt they were quite toxic. Theresa — she’s in Leo’s thrall. It’s not a good thing. I’d hate to see Meredith get sucked into that.”

I had to bite my tongue. They didn’t seem to remember that “Leo” was my ex-wife, and also my ex-me.

“Do you want to invite Meredith over for dinner tonight?” Lois asked.

“Oh thanks! I would, but she doesn’t want me to call her. She said she’ll reach out to me.”

Lois shrugged, “It’s an open invitation, then,” she said, and started clearing the table.

I cleared my throat, and very tentatively, as walking on thin ice, announced, “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

From the moment Meredith pedaled away, I knew I had to come clean with Ken and Lois, and I needed to do it as soon as possible. I had to follow the Rom-Com Rule: if you want to have a good relationship, you have to tell your secrets right away. In romantic comedies — not that I was living a romantic comedy — but in those movies, someone holds off telling something important, and it screws everything up. You watch the film, and find yourself shouting, “Just say it! Just tell her!” but they don’t. It’s always “the wrong time.”

Now *I* was in that situation. It wasn’t “the wrong time,” but, boy! I sure didn’t want to say it. The only way to get through it was to blurt it out. So I said, “I don’t know how you’re going to feel about what I’m going to tell you, but I don’t want to have any secrets from you.” Unexpectedly, my face burned as I spoke. Was it shame I felt? That was a new emotion for me.

Lois set the dirty plates down and returned to sit at the table.

“So… here's the thing: when the Switcher came to my house, we were having a barbecue,” I told them. “The other three didn’t know it, but I had a very specific reason for wanting them there. I had an idea for a heist that I wanted to pull…”

Ken and Lois stiffened slightly. I had their complete attention. It almost seemed they weren’t breathing, they were so silent.

“I have to say that none of the others are... criminals. They don’t… break laws. They’re good people, but — with the amount of money involved, I thought they might be tempted. Also, I didn’t get very far with my explanation before Simon burst in and switched us all around.”

I looked down at my lap, then nervously lifted my head. I had to try to keep my eyes on theirs, to show sincerity. After clearing my throat three times, I continued.

“Theresa — the real Theresa — was an accountant, but after I caused her to lose her job, she started working with Meredith in Meredith’s cleaning company. One of their clients was a guy with a complicated name that I can't remember. He’s also a guy with a lot of money, and Theresa happened to mention she was convinced he was running a Ponzi scheme.”

“What is a Ponzi scheme?” Lois asked.

Ken explained, “It’s like what that Bernie Madoff character did. You pretend you’re investing your clients’ money, but you really keep it for yourself. If one of your clients needs to withdraw their money, you pay them with money from new investors.”

Lois shook her head in disbelief. “What if all your clients ask for their money at the same time? I mean, at some point, people need their money.”

“At that point, the scheme falls apart,” I said. “And it doesn’t need all the clients wanting their money to break the scheme; just enough to exhaust whatever cash he has on hand.

“Another thing Theresa mentioned was that he keeps his money in cash, in his house, in a huge, room-sized safe. From her description, I estimated that there could be at least two hundred million there.”

“Dollars?” Lois gasped. I nodded.

“It could be more. Much more. She didn’t see the entire room. She only got a glimpse. Supposedly his firm manages $1.7 billion.”

Ken’s face went white. “And your idea was to steal that money.”

“Half of that money,” I corrected. “We’d leave him enough to run away with. And he’d have to run away — the Ponzi scheme would be broken.”

“Why would you want—” Lois began, puzzled, but Ken got it: “You wanted him to run so people would think he took the money — that he took ALL the money.”

“Yes,” I said. “Also, because of the sheer volume of the money — We wouldn’t be *able* to take it all. Meredith’s van can only hold so much.”

The two of them were ashen-faced, in shock. We sat in silence for a full thirty seconds. I know, because I watched the minute hand on the kitchen clock as I felt my heart pounding in my throat.

Ken sighed. “And now?” he asked.

“Meredith just asked me about the idea,” I said. “I think she was only curious, and she wondered whether you two knew. In any case, I told her the truth: it wasn’t a plan yet. It was simply an idea. There were too many holes in it.” My face was glowing red like sunburn. “That was the whole purpose and point of the barbecue. I thought they’d be tempted. I figured they’d help me fill in the holes.”

Lois loudly let out all her breath, and slumped forward. “My God!” she exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” I told them.

“Leo told us that you had some scheme cooking,” Ken said. “I had no idea…”

Clearly, they were both stunned. Lois gave me a searching look, and said, “Please tell me that you don’t still want to do this.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I don’t want to do it. I want nothing to do with it. I want to forget about it. But I had to let you know. I had to tell you. I didn’t want you to somehow hear from someone other than me.” Someone like Meredith, I added mentally.

Ken and Lois exchanged a glance. Then he told me, “I think we’re going to need some time to digest this, and... uh… we’ll talk about it again.” After a moment he added, “I’m glad that you told us,” although he didn’t look glad at all. He looked like he was in pain, like he had a terrible stomach ache. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Now, why don’t you run upstairs for a little while and... read your book or something.”

“Okay,” I whispered, and quietly climbed the stairs.

 

---

 

At first, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. All my life, I never liked coming clean, confessing, owning up to something. I didn’t like the way it left me: feeling open, vulnerable, powerless. Although it made no sense, I was frightened that Ken and Lois might sue me or have me arrested. I heaved a heavy sigh. Is this what honesty feels like? I asked myself. Of course I knew the answer; the question was rhetorical.

New life, new feelings. It seems like doing the right thing is sometimes awkward and uncomfortable. Hopefully, it wouldn’t always feel this way. Still, I had to do it. I had to tell them.

I felt pretty sure they wouldn’t throw me out because of what I’d just told them. This is how you build trust, I assured myself. Anyway I hope this is how you build trust.

Eventually I heard Lois pad slowly up the stairs and into her room. I watched my door, ready to sit up the moment she opened it.

But she didn't come upstairs so she could talk to me. I heard her heavy footsteps recede into her room. The sound of her door closing felt like a fifty-pound weight dropped on my chest.

I had shocked them. I really shocked them. I think the detail that hit them hardest was the one about forcing the Ponzi guy to run. In retrospect, I had to admit: it was pretty cold-blooded.

After a while I picked up my book and read some more of Zane Grey’s The Trail Driver. It struck me, each time I picked up the book, how much I identified with Reddie Bayne. In reality, we were nothing alike: she was sixteen; had been wrangling horses (whatever that meant) ever since she was a child; could rope and shoot, and rode a beautiful horse: “It was a magnificent animal, black as coal, clean-limbed and heavy-chested, with the head of a racer.”

None of that was me. What was similar, though, was that from the start she was certain that things weren’t going to work out. Once people found out who she really was, she’d have to leave — or so she thought. At bottom, I still felt that way, as though the ground under my feet could give way at any moment.

Reddie was ahead of me, though: At this point in the story, she had already negotiated her way into a group of cattle drivers. She was accepted by them *before* revealing herself as a girl, and then a second time, *after* they knew. She managed to worm her way into the group twice, as two different versions of herself. She was a walking contradiction: a young girl doing a grown man’s job. She was a child, really, and as she shed her male identity and grew as a woman, she learned how to deal with attention from men.

I felt that my experience of high school would be somewhat similar.

Of course, I don’t mean literally. I was quite sure that the local high school wouldn’t have us pushing Texas longhorns across a rushing river in the middle of the night, or require us to shoot rustlers before breakfast.

What I found compelling about Reddie was her uncertainty, her moments of feminine power and feminine weakness, and the unexpected bonds of love. Would I end up feeling those same awkward, tender feelings for some gawky high-school boy? Or some gawky high-school girl?

So far, I didn’t sense any hint of that. I figured that my hormones weren’t firing yet. They weren’t active, so I wasn’t drooling after anyone, or lying awake, wondering whether they liked me. I was like Reddie in that I’d escaped from a bad situation, but had no idea where life was taking me.

 

---

 

Without meaning to, I slept for a half an hour, and woke at 2:30. The house was quiet. The sun was not yet halfway down the sky, and I felt like going for another bike ride. It seemed like a good idea, getting out of the house for a little while. This time I’d fly all the way to the bottom of Hertford Hill, and see where it takes me.

At least, that was my plan.

What actually happened was that as soon as I left the house, I caught sight of someone in the street, about a block and a half away. They didn’t seem aware of me. They were looking around, stopping and starting, the way a person does when they don’t know where they are.

I moved forward a few feet toward the end of the driveway, and the click-click-click of my bicycle gears caught his attention. He turned to look at me. Our eyes locked, and in that moment I recognized him:

It was Max — or rather, Simon, still in the body of Max!

I froze when I saw him; my mind did somersaults. My instincts, my memory told me that Max was standing there, a block and a half in front of me, but I knew it wasn’t Max at all. The real Max was Meredith now: he’d become Meredith when Simon switched with him.

This “Max” who stood in the street, frozen in place just as I stood frozen, had to be Simon.

Or did he? This person, who had every appearance of being lost, could just as easily be another harmless, innocent person who’d been uprooted by Simon, divested of their own body and left in that of a stranger.

In fact, that was more likely to be the case, wasn’t it?

Ken’s car wasn’t in our driveway, which meant he wasn’t home. If he were, I would have called him to come and help.

Instead, I pedaled forward, toward the man, slowly, so as not to alarm him. Unfortunately, he got spooked right away: with a look of alarm, he dashed off to the left, to the alley behind the garages. My heart sank.

Every block in this part of town has the rather unsettling feature of being bisected by an alley that ran behind every lot. Most people’s garages opened on the alley. It was also where the trash was collected. These alleys always left me uneasy, even when I was Leo. I suppose they reminded me of some film I’ve seen, where something awful happened in those narrow, concrete-paved corridors. When it came down to it, the alleys gave me the creeps. Even more so now that I was a half-sized skinny female.

Even so, I raced the block and a half to the point where “Max” had disappeared. As I skidded to a stop, I looked down the alley. There was no sign of him. The alleys were a good place to lose someone: you’d have dozens of spots where you could pop into someone’s back yard, or sneak into an unlocked garage. For that matter, you could simply step into a recessed doorway, and no one would see you until they were right on top of you.

“Max” could have easily done any of those things. So I rode along slowly, the click-click-click of my bicycle gears announcing my presence. I wanted to call out Max’s name, but that would have done no good at all. So I said, “Hello! Hello, are you there? Hello? I want to help!”

There was no response.

About a third of the way down I saw him. Through an open gate I saw him standing in someone’s backyard, trembling. His fearful demeanor assured me: this wasn’t Simon. This was another of his victims.

“Hi,” I called to him in a gentle voice. “Are you okay? I think I can help.”

“I’m afraid,” he said, and he certainly looked afraid. It seemed like he was trying to fold himself into something tiny, invisible.

”I’m not me!” he whispered, eyes wide.

“I understand,” I told him. “The same thing happened to me.”

He looked confused at that, so I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Charlie,” he replied brightly. “I know it sounds like a boy’s name, but I’m a girl—” He faltered, and looked down at himself. “I’m not OLD!” he wailed. “I’m not OLD! I’m a GIRL! I’m a girl!”

“Hey, hey — it’s okay,” I assured him, setting down my bicycle and entering the yard.

“What do you mean it’s okay?” he croaked. “It’s NOT okay. It’s definitely NOT okay.”

I approached him slowly, with open hands, and once I got close enough, I laid my right hand on his arm. He winced at the first touch, but once our eyes met, he grew calmer. “Can I hold onto you?” he asked. “I mean, hold onto your arm? I think it will help me... help me know I’m not crazy. Please?”

“My arm?” I repeated, a little confused by his request. I didn’t want him to hold my arm — it sounded a bit weird, honestly — but he was in such evident distress and emotional pain. So I said, “Yeah, I guess so—”

Almost before the words left my mouth, his hand closed on my left forearm. “Ow!” I exclaimed. “You’ve got a strong grip there! Do you mind—”

“Brilliant,” Max said. His anxiety left him in an instant. His face relaxed. His mouth broke into a broad smile. His voice changed completely. I looked into his eyes and saw the same look Celine once had — in that moment when she was Simon, when she walked into my yard.

“Do you know, it’s been driving me mad,” he said. “Not being able to touch people.” Then he laughed, and I was sure.

“Simon!”

“In the flesh! You know, I almost wasn’t sure I’d be able to take you in! But look at us now! It appears I have complete command of the American accent!” He gestured with my captive arm, as it were his trophy.

“Over here,” he commanded, tugging my arm behind him as he walked. “There’s some lovely lawn furniture just here. Let’s have a seat, shall we?”

“Um, yeah — sure. Do you mind letting go of my arm, though? It actually hurts quite a lot.”

“Oh, no! No, of course not! Of course I mind! I mind a great deal! If I let go of you, you’ll be gone in a flash. And then where will we be?” He dragged me like a rag-doll toward the lawn chairs. After sitting in one chair he pushed me into the other. “And please,” he added, “Don’t scream or cry out or any other asinine thing. If you do, I’ll be forced to punch you in the throat. If you’ve never experienced it, let me assure you, it’s very unpleasant. Let’s have a sit-down and chat for a bit, just you and me. Be a dear and open one of those beers for me, will you? You’ve got two hands. The opener’s right there. You can have one yourself if you like.”

On the ground near my feet sat a six pack of beer and a bottle opener. I lifted one of the beers from the pack. “It’s warm,” I told him.

“It’s fine,” he said, with a slight eye roll. I shrugged, popped the top, and handed it to him. He took a sip and let out a very satisfied sigh.

“I have to say, this is very civilized, don’t you think?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, of course not. No chance of that. What? No beer for you? They’re quire lovely: Samuel Smith, Nut Brown Ale.”

“Yes, it’s a good beer,” I agreed, “but I’m too young to drink.”

“Oh, yes, I imagine you are — with that policeman for a father! Does he make you blow into a breathalizer when you arrive home? Has he tasered you yet? Has he read you your rights?” He laughed, though none of it was funny at all.

“What do you want?” I demanded. I was both irritated and afraid. “You can’t switch with me — I don’t think you’d want to, anyway. I have nothing you could possibly want. Why don’t you let me go? I won’t tell anyone I’ve seen you.”

He smiled and looked me in the face. “You were probably a wonderful liar when you were Leo Blisten. Unfortunately, although Celine Morsten was as wicked a child as she could possibly be, she had no skills whatsoever as a liar. Every thought and feeling you have is written on that silly little-girl face of yours! That’s how I know that the moment I let you go, you’ll get on the phone to the feds or the mounties or whatever you call the competent authority in this backwater.”

“So what DO you want?” I repeated.

“Exactly this,” he said. “A quiet garden, a pleasant beer, served at the proper temperature, and a little conversation.”

“With me,” I prompted dubiously, not buying his palaver at all.

“Why not you?” he asked. “You’re a man of the world, in spite of your current appearance.” He sipped his beer, relishing it. “To go back to something you said, you’re spot-on: I can’t switch with you, and that’s exactly why we’re here. I can touch your arm. I can talk with you. You can understand my plight.”

“Your plight?” I repeated, incredulous. Then a terrible suspicion struck me. “But — wait — no. Listen to me: if you have any notion of having sex with me, you can forget it—”

“Are you insane?” he replied, recoiling a little. He appeared highly and sincerely offended. Still, he never loosened his grip on my arm, not even for an instant. “I may be many things, but one thing I am not, nor have I ever been, a paedophile.” He winced in disgust..

“That’s not why you’re here,” he said, still shaking his head. “Not at all!”

“So… ever since you gained this… this power, you haven’t been able to have sex, or even kiss someone?”

“No, not at all — although recent developments,” he smiled a sly smile here, “recent developments have shown me a way to do exactly that.” He nodded to himself with a satisfied air. “I’m quite looking forward to it.” Then he laughed, although there was nothing to laugh at.

“Have no fear — it doesn’t involve you in any way. I’ve got a pair of switches in mind that will make it possible for me to cavort with a full-grown, adult woman — a willing adult woman, who will have given her full consent.

“But, as I was saying — You, of all people, must understand my plight. I’m like King Midas, if you will: whatever he touched turned to gold. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t live a normal life. The same is true for me. It plagues me — It drives me mad — this not being able to touch people. If someone bumps into me, boom! I’m him or her.”

“You have no control over it?”

“No,” he said. “Don’t you see? It’s tragic! I’m very much a victim here. What I’m lacking, what I’m missing, is human contact. Company. Companionship. Conversation.” He paused, then lifted my arm as an example as he said, “Touch.” He lowered my arm, then said, “It’s precisely because we’ve switched that I sought you out, so I could, for once, have a few moments of conviviality.”

“Me, in particular?”

“Yes, you in particular. Of all the people I’ve bumped into here, you’re the only one who has cultivated a taste for crime.”

“Not any more,” I said.

“I see. In my own god-like way, I’ve given you a second chance at life — How very good of me! And you’ve decided that you want to be a good girl, this time.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I have. I will.”

“Hmmph! Haven’t you heard? The leopard can’t change his spots.”

“You, of all people, should know it isn’t true.”

“Oh, really? I’m quite sure that it *is* true. Think of how many times I’ve changed! Think of all the times you resolved to reform — if ever. You have schemes and scams cooked into your very soul. You can’t leave them behind like an old raincoat. Look me in the eye and tell me that you’ve left all your scheming and your scamming behind you forever.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “Besides, what do you care?”

He didn’t answer. He took another sip of beer. So far, he’d had less than a third of the bottle. He was taking it very slowly.

When he didn’t answer, I decided to give my question a try. “There’s something bothering me.” I told him. “You targeted me. You *wanted* to switch with me.”

“Did I?” he said, in a noncommittal tone. “I’ll admit that I knew who you were. When I ended up in this alternate Lambeth, I had a look around to see if there was anyone interesting in the neighborhood. Think for yourself: how many people in Lambeth rise out of the ordinary, out of the herd? Leo Blisten, con man, scammer — you were the most alive person in this absurd little burgh.”

It didn’t ring true for me. “What — did you do an internet search for criminals living in Lambeth, and you found me? I don’t believe it. I don’t have a criminal record. I’m not well-known. I’m not known at all, not even in Lambeth.”

“It sounds like you don’t spend much time online. There are accounts on Facebook — and other sites — where people talk about you. People both named and anonymous — people who worked with your wife at her last job. They felt that she’d been unfairly fired, and they laid all the blame squarely on you. Oh, the comments! It was a virtual inquisition! If those people could, they would have had you tarred and feathered, drawn and quartered. In a word, They would make you pay." He laughed. "They examined you, took you apart, detailed all of your sins! Those silly do-gooders righteously ripped you a new one! I’m surprised your ears weren’t burning! I have to say, it was so scathing, so full of indignation, that I was quite intrigued.”

He drew a long, slow breath, and let it out. “And now you tell me that you’ve abandoned your life of crime. You turned into a policeman’s daughter, and found you like the role.”

“I do.”

“That’s sad. Sad and stupid. Such a waste! All that talent and experience, thrown away. Well, let’s see whether I can tempt you back to the dark side. When the police told you about me, did they happen to mention how many banks I’ve robbed?”

“No, the subject didn’t come up.”

“What a shame! I’ve lost track myself; it would have been nice to hear the actual number. In any case, the moral of the story is this: I’ve always managed to get the money I need by myself, but I’ve come up with a plan that requires a helper, and you would do perfectly.”

I huffed in exasperation. “I told you: I’m not interested!”

He continued to smile, as though he was dangling a juicy bit of steak in front of a hungry dog. But I had NO intention of biting.

Then it occurred to me: I might as well listen. I could tell Ken; and we could tell the feds. If I pretended to go along, it might provide the opportunity to catch him and contain him for good.

I could feel my face betray me, my muscles jerking in weird ways. Still, I could give it a try.

So I told him, “You know what? Convince me. Tell me what I’d have to do, and what I’d get from it. Go on, lay it out for me.”

Simon didn’t go on. He didn’t lay anything out. Instead, his eyes narrowed. He paused and drew back a bit.. Perhaps he really could read my face and see what I was thinking.

“Not so fast,” Simon replied. “Not so bloody fast. I’m beginning to think this whole business sounded much better in my head. You’re not the right person anyway. You're not the person I thought you were.” He scoffed and shook his head.

“It’s so disappointing. You are such a disappointment. I expected a partner in crime — or at least an accomplice. Instead I found an empty-headed thirteen-year-old girl. That’s all you are now: a pathetic little child, with a cop for a father and a would-be suicide for a mother.” He dropped his half-full bottle on the lawn. It landed with a soft thud! in the uncut grass. “Right, then! Off you go, you little brat! Run off to your policeman-daddy and your tragically-morose mummy! Grow up to be another gray old cow! See if I care!” He let go of my arm with an angry toss. I couldn’t help but stop to rub the raw red ring he’d left on my forearm. Then I bolted — back to the alley, where I retrieved my bike. I clumsily climbed aboard, shot home like a flaming arrow, and ran inside.

 

---

 

The feds met us in the Target parking lot, across from the Cheesecake Factory. The location was Ken’s idea.

He told them, “I don’t want a crowd of law-enforcement types swarming my house. I don’t need that kind of attention, that kind of notoriety.”

The feds were clearly miffed. One of them was downright furious. “Do you know how much time you’ve wasted? You should have called from your home and stayed there!” After a few minutes of fruitless recriminations, they directed us to follow them to an office nearby. We were given NDAs to sign. I was interrogated by four different people. All four asked me the same questions. I demanded that Ken sit in on the sessions, to see fair play. Ken, in turn, insisted on Lois joining as well. The feds asked me ten times to identify a photo of Max. They ran through my conversation with Simon from every possible angle — even going through it backward — until they were sure it was as close to a verbatim transcript as possible.

By the time they were done with me, Ken, Lois, and I were exhausted and hungry, so we did the obvious thing and ate at the Cheesecake Factory again. “If I have a beer, can you drive?” Ken asked Lois. She nodded.

It might seem like an overreaction, but the three of us felt quite battered by the experience. Maybe it tied too easily and too quickly into our earlier experiences with Simon. Maybe that’s what made it so hard.

“I’m really fed up with that crowd of Feds,” Ken commented darkly. “They have no regard for us as people. Did you feel that? They acted as though talking to us was a huge inconvenience for them.”

I nodded. Lois was silent.

After dinner, in an effort to comfort ourselves, each of us ordered a slice of cheesecake of a different flavor. While we were digging into each other’s portions, one of the Feds came in and sat down with a confidential air.

“We put up a net around the block where you saw Simon,” he told us. “We figure he’s probably living in one of the empty houses. We can’t go knocking on every door, so we’re going to wait a bit and see if ‘Max’ pops up.”

Ken nodded. “I guess that’s all you can do.”

The agent handed Ken a card. “Call me if anything new develops, or if he contacts this one again.” He gestured at me as he said this one.

Once the agent left the restaurant, Ken said, “That bunch couldn’t catch a dead dog! Anyway, by the time Celine ran home, Simon was already long gone.”

“Let’s hope so,” Lois commented.

 

---

 

After we returned home, I went to my room and sat on my bed. The room was pretty different from when I first saw it. All the boxes were gone. My laptop sat on my desk. Everything was orderly, clean, uncluttered. There was still nothing on the walls, no pictures, no posters, but they would come.

I sat there, waiting for my mind to catch up with everything that had happened today: seeing Meredith, telling Ken and Lois about the heist, being grabbed by Simon, and finally getting interrogated over and over by the Feds.

While I sat there, Ken stuck his head in. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m still digesting everything that happened today,” I told him. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “Mind if I sit down for a minute?” I nodded. He took the chair from my desk and turned it to face me.

After he sat down, he asked, “Was there anything you didn’t tell the Feds? About Simon?”

“No,” I replied honestly. “I gave them everything I had. I mean, you were there. I don’t think I made myself sound very good, but I didn’t hold back at all.”

He nodded several times, then asked, “What do you think he wanted? I know the Feds asked you that—”

“—and I said that I didn’t know—”

“Yes, you did. But do you have any kind of suspicion?”

I gestured vaguely, then told him, “Maybe he was looking for a fall guy. Maybe he was looking for a shill. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it was fishy as hell.”

“Yeah,” Ken agreed. Then he rubbed his hands together as if trying to warm them. He glanced at me, and said, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about that scheme of yours — the one you told us about earlier?”

“Sure, of course.”

“How did Theresa know that this investor guy was running a Ponzi scheme?”

“Let’s see. The main thing was guaranteed returns. He promised his investors at least 12% return on investment. In the real world, no investments are ever guaranteed. It's impossible. So that was a BIG red flag. Another was that he had so much cash on hand. Also the fact that he showed it off to her. If he was really earning these big returns, the money would have been invested somewhere, not sitting in his house.” I thought for a minute, trying to remember what else Theresa had said. Then it came to me: “Oh, there was one more thing. The whole company was just him and his assistant. She said that was suspicious. I don’t know exactly why. And she said that they never traded. Again, I don’t know how she knew that, but that’s what she said.”

I thought for a moment, but nothing else came to mind. “Maybe there were other things, but that’s everything I can recall.”

Ken nodded again. Then he asked, “You said there were holes in the plan. What were they?”

“Okay,” I said, warming to the subject. “One obvious problem is the safe. What’s the combination? We’d have to find that out. Also, I didn’t know anything about the house. I’ve never been there. Are there security cameras? Is there special security for the safe?

“And then a big one: would Theresa and Meredith help me? If they wouldn’t, there was no hope of pulling it off. Meredith’s van was the best, most invisible way of carrying the money away.

“Another big unknown is that I needed to know from Theresa when the Ponzi scheme was about to break. Would she be able to tell? The best time to pull the heist would be just before he was about to run himself. At that point, he'd have the most cash on hand and he'd be primed to run.”

“Okay,” Ken said, taking it in. “Now, I have one more question for you: How do I know that you won’t up and try to rob the Ponzi guy one day? Either by yourself or with others?”

“Well…” I have to admit, the question made me uncomfortable, but not because I wanted to do the job. Now, at least for me, it was all about trust between him and me. This was another of those awkward moments when doing the right thing (in this case, telling the truth) felt awful.

“Okay, again there’s the issue of the safe and the house, security cameras, etc. But there are two huge problems: one is that I can’t drive.” Ken laughed at that. I continued, “Also, hauling that money takes muscles that I don’t have. Another problem is: how can I protect myself — and potentially, others — from the Ponzi guy? What resources does he have? How far would he go to get revenge and get his money back?” I smiled uneasily. “I mean, I’m not a big, scary guy any more. I’m a skinny little kid.”

Ken stood up to go. He was nodding, more to himself than to me.

“Oh,” he said, “Something you said… What was it? Oh, right! About the safe. If you didn’t know the combination, how were you going to get in? You’re not a safecracker, are you?”

This time, I laughed. “No, I’m not a safecracker,” I told him. “And I don’t know anything about explosives. I would have asked Theresa and Meredith to install tiny cameras at different angles around the safe, to watch him do the combination.”

He nodded.

“Are you worried by what I told you?” I asked him.

“No, I think I’m okay. Lois was pretty shocked though. I think she’ll need a little time to recover. But she’ll be okay, too.” He tried to give a reassuring smile, and almost succeeded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This won’t undo us. As long as we can be more or less normal from here on out, we’ll be good.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Normal it shall be.”

A Minority Of One : 7 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

“Child, you’re a boy no more,” he said, wistfully. “You’re a girl — a lady.
And no one who knowed you would want to see you go back now.”
— Zane Grey, The Trail Driver

---

 

When I woke up the next morning, I looked to see which outfit Lois had laid out for me. In this short span of days, it had already become a habit. Each night — often after I’d fallen asleep — Lois would choose an outfit for my day, an entire outfit: everything from a top and pants or shorts to my underwear, socks, and shoes. I really appreciated not having to decide. I’d just slip into the clothes, and knew that they were right: everything “went together,” was appropriate for the weather and the day’s activities, and all that.

Today there was no outfit.

Maybe Lois was just too tired last night. Yesterday was long and emotionally draining. She was entitled to skip a day, especially after a day like yesterday — a day that featured Simon (again) and the awful Feds (again).

Still, I couldn’t help but feel that Lois hadn’t laid out any clothes for me because she hadn’t gotten over my confession. The absence of today’s outfit made her alienation from me palpable. The sense of her disappointment hurt me, weighed on me. It was worse than a slap in the face. I’ve never been a sensitive person. Theresa often said I lacked empathy. She was probably right: this feeling of suffering was all about me, wasn’t it. I wasn’t sure. In any case, Lois, like Theresa, was capable of creating a bleak, frozen distance between us that I had no idea how to navigate or even approach. With Theresa, I came to ignore it. I got to the point of welcoming her cold shoulder: her silence was infinitely preferable to her shouts and recriminations.

With Lois, though, I felt dismay. It was a new feeling for me. Dismay, guilt — even sorrow. I’d hurt her, when she was already hurting. Without meaning to, I brought that awful Simon back into her life — the man responsible for her daughter’s death, at least in part. And after her death, he ghoulishly animated her body (as I was doing now).

There was no reason to think Simon would visit me again, but then again, there was no reason for him to come today.

Why on earth had he come? It was absurd to think that he’d want an accomplice. Wasn’t it? It had to be something else.

I didn’t know why, but after mentally turning our conversation over in my mind, I came to feel certain that I’d meet Simon again.

What a mess! Simon was the first person I ever met who I had no idea how to handle. His power to switch was beyond my comprehension, but worse, far worse, was the fact that he was a psychopath. I’d never met one before, and it was seriously creepy. As if you touched someone and found their skin as cold as ice and their pulse as dead as a piece of marble. And yet, they move and talk. They’re happy to inflict pain as a whim. I didn’t fool myself into thinking I was some sort of exception. He regarded me as a stepping stone, nothing more.

Or maybe, a potential stepping stone? Whatever test he subjected me to, I failed, and I was glad I’d failed.

In the end, meeting Simon, talking with Simon, was disturbing. But what disturbed me far more than that, was how I’d let Lois down. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to. I was trying to be honest, to take responsibility. After all, she and Ken asked me to be honest with them.

Unfortunately, at least so far, every time I tried to be honest, I ended up feeling bad.

This time, I left Lois feeling worse.

I let out a resigned sigh. After I made my bed, I went to the closet. I needed clothes. As I opened the door, the first thing that struck me was how many dresses I had. It threw into highlight the fact that Lois had never set out a dress for me to wear. Was she being considerate? Did she think I might be uncomfortable wearing one? Who knows?

At the same time, it struck me that choosing a dress would be a far simpler outfit choice, since I’d only be choosing *one* thing: I wouldn’t need to coordinate (or attempt to coordinate) a top and shorts or pants. Or skirt, for that matter.

It seemed safe to assume that all the dresses would fit me.

So how could I go wrong? I looked at the colors and chose a pale blue. When I pulled it from the closet I saw it was pale blue with white flowers. Pretty. Light cotton. I spotted a pair of sneakers that were also blue — not exactly the same blue as the dress, but still blue. Underwear and socks, also blue.

Choosing closthes wasn’t so difficult after all!

For breakfast I ate a big spoonful of yogurt right out of the container, two handfuls of granola, and two big glugs of milk from the carton. I felt like a pioneer.

Then I sat down to read some more of The Trail Driver. The story was pretty close to the end — they were almost at Dodge City, which was the end of the trail. It was there that the cattle would be sold, the cowboys would be paid, and everyone would go their separate ways. The pace of the book had picked up considerably: most of the adventure and action was packed into the last quarter of the book: the shooting, the stampedes, the wild weather, the chain lightning, the massive hailstones…

After an hour I closed the book. The house was so silent that I feared for a moment that Ken and Lois had run off and left me alone. I quietly padded to a front window, and found the driveway empty. Ken’s car was gone, and presumably Ken with it.

I tried to quiet my anxiety, and thought I’d wait another hour before peeking into their bedroom, to see whether Lois was still here.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to. When I returned to the kitchen, Lois was there, studying the contents of the fridge. I said, “Good morning,” but she didn’t answer or turn. Okay. Give her space.

Lois turned, eyed me up and down and said, “That’s a cute dress. I could never get Celine to even try it on, let alone wear it.” I smiled. She didn’t smile back.

“It was a gift from my mother,” Lois added, watching me for my reaction.

“Oh!” I said. “It never occurred to me that there were more people in this family!”

“Yeah,” Lois said laconically, “if you stick around, you may meet them.”

I scratched my cheek. Emotionally, she was like a wall today: leaden. I couldn’t blame her, but the situation was distressing. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. Did she need to yell at me? Did I need to leave her alone?

“So, you decided to take a day off from cleaning today?”

“Um, no. Why do you say that?”

“That’s too nice a dress to clean house in.”

“Oh, um, well, I can change.”

“No, don’t bother.”

“I was going to tackle the basement.”

“No. No. Not in that dress.”

“Where’s Ken?”

“He went in early today.”

I was at a loss. She wasn’t even moving. Not a single muscle. She was responding to what I said, but in a way that was so neutral, so devoid of expression. She ended every back-and-forth by letting the conversational ball simply fall to the ground. The phrase flat affect came to mind. It was like talking to a robot. Her lifeless demeanor left me in dismay.

“Well, maybe I’ll go out for a walk,” I said.

“Be careful where you walk and where you sit,” she told me. “You don’t want to get your pretty dress dirty.”

“Should I change?” I asked, uncertain. “I — I can run upstairs and change.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t bother. The dress survived Celine, I’m sure it will survive you as well.”

Almost without knowing what I was doing, I turned and left the room. I walked out the front door, gave a wordless wave to Mr. Waters, and kept going in a straight line. I needed to put some distance between me and Lois.

When I first started walking, there were only houses around me. I didn’t come across a single store or office. Just house after house. After maybe half an hour, the houses thinned out, and I began to see more warehouses, garages, storage units, and the like. There were people around: not many, though, and they were all minding their own business. Here, the town was petering out. If I kept going straight soon I’d see empty lots and woodland. So I turned left, walked a few blocks, and turned left again, heading back toward — well, not toward home, but toward life, civilization, commerce, people. I kept going straight until the neighborhood improved. Every few blocks I’d take a right and a left, to shift over one block. I wasn’t familiar with this part of Lambeth. I didn’t know where I was headed, but I didn’t want to go home.

My throat began to get dry. I stopped for a minute to think. I realized for the first time that I didn’t have any money or phone or really anything at all, except for the clothes I was wearing. I was too young to have a drivers license. It was still two months before school started, so I didn’t have a school ID. I wondered whether I should be carrying a health insurance card. In any case, I had nothing. If I was in an accident, it would take a little time for the police to figure out who I am. At least I’m wearing clean underwear, I told myself, with a wry smile.

Time to take stock of where I found myself. Up ahead, the hill that defines Lambeth stretched across the horizon. At the bottom of the hill was a church tower that I recognized. If I headed in that direction, eventually I could find my way to the Kenderley neighborhood. The main library was there — a good place to stop and rest. Once there, I could get a drink of water and find a clean chair to sit on.

Once there, once I was sitting down and hydrated, I could try to figure out what to do. It really looked as though I’d blown it with Ken and Lois, with my stupid Rom-Com Rule. Honestly was clearly not always the best policy.

I’d been walking for a while, but the church tower didn’t seem to be getting any closer. A sudden refreshing breeze cut down a side street and flowed over me, and in that moment I realized that I didn’t *need* a plan or a strategy. I didn’t have to find a move to make: it was all on the the Morstens. If they didn’t want me, if they were through with me, they would have to send me away. Lois couldn’t ice me out. She could make me uncomfortable, but she couldn’t make me leave. I was the minor here: they were responsible for me. They couldn't simply cut me off and push me out. They couldn't do it with the real Celine, after all. They were stuck with me.

Oddly, that realization was a relief. It took all the weight off me. I’ll just keep living there until they get rid of me, I decided. As perverse and backward as it sounds, that resolution allowed me finally to stop worrying.

I didn’t need to do *anything*. I couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t my move to make.

Feeling lighter, unburdened, I walked a few blocks farther and came to a busy intersection. While I waited for the light to change, a police car pulled up next to me. “Hey, Celine,” a familiar voice called.

“Dad!” I exclaimed. (I almost slipped and called him Ken.)

“What are you doing so far from home?”

“I just felt like walking,” I said. “Just to give… Mom some space.”

“Ah.” A thoughtful, concerned expression flitted across his face, and then, after a glance at his partner, he asked, “Are you hungry? We were just about to stop for lunch.”

“Lunch would be great!” I said. As a matter of fact, I was hungry. I must have been walking for hours.

A few minutes later the three of us were settling into a booth at the Lucky Diner.

“That’s a pretty dress,” Ken observed.

“Yes, it’s a gift from Grandma,” I told him.

“Oh, yeah, I guess it is,” he said. “I didn’t recognize it at first. Um — first time you’re wearing it.”

“Right.”

Ken’s partner, Dave, asked. “Where were you heading?”

“The library,” I told him. “I want to see about getting a library card.”

“How about that!” Dave exclaimed. “My son tells me that books are obsolete nowadays. That’s his excuse for not reading.”

“Libraries have other services besides booklending.”

“Oh, my gosh, Ken, listen to this one! Booklending! She talks like an encyclopedia! Listen, Ken, Celine — my son, he *never* cracks a book if he can help it. To him, homework is torture. Torture! I try to tell him that procrastinating prolongs the agony, but does he listen? Then, on the other hand, here you are — you up and decided to go to the library, all by yourself!”

I shrugged. “What does your son like to do?”

“Baseball. He’s all about baseball. Shortstop. Good stats. He’s about your age, maybe a little older? He’s thirteen.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“How about that? What a coincidence! Are you going to Tallmadge High this Fall?”

I glanced at Ken, who helped me out with an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes,” I said.

“You know, you could come watch him play some time! He’s in a summer league. If you two get to know each other, it won’t be all strangers for either of you, first day.”

At that point, the waitress came to take our orders, then Dave got up to use the restroom.

The moment we were alone, Ken leaned forward, and in a low voice asked, “Did something happen between you and Lois?”

“I just wanted to give her space,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said. “You know she’s depressed, right? Mood swings are a part of it. You never know which Lois you’re going to meet.”

“I got that,” I said. “I went through all that with Theresa. There isn’t much you can do but wait it out.”

“There’s one important thing you can do — that WE can do,” he said. “And that’s to not give up on her. Don’t give up on Lois, Celine. She needs us. Both of us.”

I wanted to protest. I wanted to say, She needs us? *I* need her. I’m the kid in this situation! Of course, I didn’t say it. I’m selfish, but not THAT selfish. I knew he was right. Then he asked me, “You don’t have a phone, do you?” I shook my head. “Money?” I shook my head again. He pulled out his wallet and handed me a $20 bill. At first I wasn’t sure where to put it, then discovered that the dress had pockets!

“Thanks,” I told him.

“We have to get you a phone, and I guess we should talk about allowance.”

“What did you give Celine?” I asked.

He laughed. “Celine was a thief,” he replied. “You don’t need to give money to a thief.”

Dave returned. “It hit me, while I was in the can: I didn’t tell you my boy’s name. It’s Alfie.”

I almost asked why? but instead said, “That’s an unusual name.”

“Yeah, my wife picked it.”

I sang the first few bars of What’s It All About, Alfie? and Dave’s jaw dropped. “How do you know that song?”

I realized I was in danger of play the smartass, the girl “wise beyond her years” so I dumbed it down in my reply. “Is that a song? Wasn’t it on a commercial for something?”

Then, to forestall any more talk about his son, I threw out a joke, the first one that came to mind: “Hey — Who is bigger? Mr Bigger or Mr Bigger’s baby?”

Dave gave a barking laugh and slapped the table. “I know this one! The baby! The baby is a little Bigger.”

I laughed — more at his excitement than anything else. For the rest of our lunch, Dave ran though every joke he knew, or so it seemed.

A long time ago, I found that if you get other people to do most of the talking, they feel a lot better about the conversation. Still, Dave wasn’t stupid, and I hadn’t completely put him off his goal. I hit a joke that flopped, and Dave pulled out his phone and found a photo.

“See? This is my kid. Alfie. The red-hot babe is my wife.”

I had to admit, Alfie was a good-looking guy. A nice-looking guy. An interesting mix of both his parents’ features, although he favored his mother. He was wearing a shirt with the number five on it, which struck a chord in my memory. Who did he remind me of? It came to me in a flash, and I found myself exclaiming, “He looks like Aidan Gallagher!”

Dave shook his head. “Who’s that now?”

“Aiden Gallagher. He’s an actor. Do you know The Umbrella Academy? He plays Five.”

“He plays five what? Is that his number?”

“Five is his name.”

“Ehh — never heard of the Umbrella — thing.. Is it a movie?” He had a dubious look.

“TV show. It’s very cool.”

“So… in other words,” Dave said, smiling, “Alfie’s not bad looking, right?”

I blushed like a stop light and looked down at the table. “Right,” I admitted in a quiet voice. What a surprise! How did I get ambushed like that? Look at me: having feelings and attractions and all that...

Dave nodded and put his phone away. He had the sense to not pursue his advantage and make me feel more awkward.

Dave paid. We left. I waved as they drove off.

From there, I made a quick stop at the library, to ask about getting a library card.

“You need proof that you live in town,” the librarian told me. “That could be as simple as a postmarked letter addressed to you. Or, you can come with one of your parents. In that case, they will need proof of address: a utility bill, a postmarked letter addressed to them, or a drivers license showing an address in town.”

Outside the library, I stopped at a kiosk that displayed a map of town. Although I’d walked a long way, at least an hour, my path showed on the map as a long, narrow V. Although I'd walked for nearly three hours that morning, it only took me fifteen minutes to get home.

“Where were you?” Lois said. Her manner had utterly changed. “You've been gone for hours! I was worried!”

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “But I left without money, and I don’t have a phone. I thought that Ken would call you?”

“No,” she said. “Your dad didn’t call. Why would he?”

“I had lunch with him. And his partner,” I told her. She noticed my blush when I mentioned the partner, so she wanted to hear all about it. When I was done, and she’d ferreted as many details about Alfie as possible, she gave me a big hug.

I’d say her hot-and-cold behavior was confusing, but as I’ve said (more than once), after a year of living with with a depressed person, I’d learned it was best to roll with their mood. There wasn’t any point in questioning why the sun was shining. Anyway, Ken had it exactly right: You never knew which Lois you were going to meet.

So… we were friends again. Mother and daughter. For right now, anyway.

 

---

 

After Lois had squeezed all the my-little-girl-is-growing-up juice out of my surprising attraction to Alfie, she had some news to share with me.

While I was out walking, Mr. Waters, our next door neighbor, had stopped by to talk about his daughter’s visit. She was arriving on Tuesday and leaving Friday. When Mr Waters first spoke with me, I kind of expected to have one or two sleepovers with his granddaughter Daphne, and spend time with her during the day, but the plans had changed.

“As it happens, Mr. Waters has two grown daughters, and the older daughter lives in Mystic. She’s got three kids. They’re all just a little bit older than you. They’ve got all four days planned out, and from the sound of things, it will be non-stop fun.”

“Hmmph,” I grunted in disbelief. “Non-stop fun?” The phrase itself boded exactly the opposite. “Mystic, Connecticut does not sound like a hotbed of non-stop fun. Have you ever been there?”

“No,” Lois replied. “Have you?”

“Well, no, but come on — it’s Mystic Seaport. It sounds like a great place to watch the paint peel off a bunch of old wooden boats.”

Lois laughed. “I guess Mr. Waters suspected you might have such a jaded, old-man-like reaction, so he printed these out for you. And for us as well.” She laid them out on the table.

There were two pages about Mystic Seaport, about the aquarium, the various museums, and the old town. Then came the real payload: ten pages about — among other things — Fields of Fire, a huge park featuring climbing platforms, paintball, ziplines, and other amusements, and Fearless Flyers, where we’d get to try circus acrobatics, such as tightrope walking, the flying trapeze, and much, much more.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t expect anything like this!”

“Yeah, pretty boring, huh,” Lois said, laughing.

I was surprised by how excited the trip made me. I wanted to pack my bag right then, right now. Lois was delighted. “Look what a teenager you are! You can’t wait!” And she hugged me again. I bit my tongue to keep from making snarky comments. I didn’t want to ruin Lois’ good mood. She was really enjoying my teenage embarrassment and awkward feelings. This was exactly what she missed with the original Celine. I had to let her revel in it.

And Lois’ vicarious delight was far from over! Ken called with the news that his partner Dave had invited the three of us over for a cookout that evening.

“Obviously, he wants you to meet your new boyfriend,” Lois teased. “And Ken and I get to meet your future in-laws.”

I groaned.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lois said. “It’s okay if he kisses you, but if he tries anything else, sock him.”

I gave another inarticulate groan. “I’m not ready for boys.”

“No one is ever ready,” Lois said. “It’s always a baptism of fire.”

 

---

 

I don’t know why Lois said that thing about a “baptism of fire.” It wasn’t that way at all. It was just one step after another. Nothing was sudden or unexpected or unwanted.

Lois helped me pick out a dress. She asked, You do want to wear a dress, don’t you? And, yes of course I wanted to wear a dress. Together, we settled on a navy gingham shirtdress. (She had to decode that designation for me: The fabric was white with navy-blue checks, about an inch square. It almost gave a school-uniform vibe, which was just the slightest suggestion of sexy, but not any more sexy than a girl my age should be.

“Do you want some lipstick?” Lois asked.

“Uh, no,” I responded. “Do you think I should?”

Lois shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

“I better not,” I decided. “I might smudge it all over my face or do some other stupid thing.”

 

---

 

On the way to the barbecue, Lois asked, “What’s the wife’s name?”

“Pamela,” Ken replied. “And the family name is Mustone.”

“Dave, Pam, and Alfie Mustone,” Lois said to herself, and repeated it twice to be sure.

“Are we the only guests?” I asked.

“As far as I know,” Ken replied.

We were the only guests. When we walked into the backyard, Dave did a six-second introduction, pointing to each one of us in turn and saying our name. Then he said, “Alfie, get Celine a Coke or whatever she wants. I’ll take care of the adults.”

I walked over and joined Alfie while Dave chatted with the adults, making them welcome, getting their drinks. Alfie lifted his head to look at me, and a shock of full, dark brown hair swept down across his forehead. My breath caught in my throat — luckily, that was my only awkward moment. For the rest of the evening, our conversation ran smoothly, all by itself. It all just happened, as naturally as you like.

“We have Coke, Diet Coke, Fanta, and Sprite,” he told me. His voice was a little shaky. I couldn’t tell whether he was shy or trying to be cool.

“Wow, a full-service bar,” I quipped.

“We aim to please,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

I looked at the selection and asked for a Dr. Pepper. “Huh,” he said. “I didn’t mention that one because I didn’t think you’d want it. You know what they say about girls who drink Dr. Pepper?”

“No,” I replied, taking the drink from his hand. “What do they say?”

He stopped for a moment, took a sip of his Coke, and said, “I don’t know. I don’t have a follow-up. I kind of thought you’d have a comeback. It just sounded funny. To me. Until I said it.”

I shrugged. “It was funny enough.” Alfie was wearing pale blue shorts and a light gray t-shirt. The logo on the shirt was a cartoon goat’s head.

“What is the goat munching on?” I asked him, gesturing to his shirt. “It looks like a brown carrot.”

“It’s a baseball bat!” he explained. “This is the logo for the Hartford Yard Goats.”

“Is that a minor league team?” I asked.

His eyes lit up. “Yes! There’s no major league baseball in Connecticut, so I go to as many of the Yard Goats games as possible.”

“Are they good?”

“It’s live baseball,” he replied evasively. “They play with a lot of heart.”

I nodded. “Your dad said you’re a shortstop.”

“Right,” he said, “It’s a demanding position. I like it.”

Just as I was about to wonder whether we’d be stuck talking about baseball all evening, he asked me what *I* liked, what I was into. I was at a loss. What was I into?

So I told him that I liked to read. He asked me what I was reading, so I told him.

After I’d pretty much told him the whole story of The Trail Rider, I stopped.

“Oh!” I said. “I’ve been talking a long time. You shouldn’t have let me do all of the talking!”

“Did I?” he asked. “I was interested. I like listening to you. That’s why I kept asking questions. Why did you choose that book? Do you like Westerns?”

“No,” I laughed. “I don’t. I’m reading it because my fa—” I stopped. My father. My *father* liked Westerns. But my father isn’t my father any more. Ken is my father. So, I finished the thought: “My grandfather liked Westerns. I have a bunch of his old books.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

We ate. We talked. I asked whether he’d seen Umbrella Academy (he hadn’t). We talked about TV shows, movies, the Avengers.

“Hey,” I said, remembering, “Your father said that you wouldn’t know anybody at Tallmadge High. Why is that? You’ve lived here all your life, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. “The reason is embarrassing, but I’ll tell you. All my classmates are going to private high schools. I can’t, because my grades aren’t good enough and because it’s too expensive.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry!”

“I’m not,” he said. “The public high school has a better sports program. They’ve also got a better music program, and I want to learn an instrument.”

“Which one?”

“Sax, I think. But I’m open.”

At one point, after the sun had set, the adults went inside to have a look at the house, leaving me and Alfie alone. At some point, he took my hand. “Your skin is so soft,” he said, and turned his face toward mine. In a kind of magnetic moment, I moved my head a little toward his, and he moved his head a little towards mine. I moved a little, he moved a little, and by slow, cautious degrees we arrived at a kiss.

It was soft and nice. The only awkward part was that neither of us knew when it was okay to stop. We were saved, I guess, by the return of the adults. We heard them and separated before they could have seen us.

“I’d give you my phone number,” I told him, “but I don’t have a phone.”

“Neither do I,” he confessed with a smile.

Ken, Lois, and I went home soon after, but not before Alfie invited me to a baseball game he was playing tomorrow.

 

---

 

It wasn’t as though I made a decision to like boys. In fact, I don’t know whether I like boys in the plural, but I know that Alfie and I hit it off. We were like gears that instantly meshed. It wasn’t exciting or awkward or embarrassing. It was natural. We were simpatico. We were simply friends. Friends who kissed sometimes.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I thought of Reddie, who started off in disguise, dressed as a boy. Then she revealed herself as the girl she always was, out in the open, known, recognized — and soon she was courted by one of the cowboys. When she lay in her bedroll, underneath the stars, she was tormented by the uncertainty of Does he like me? Does he respect me?

I didn’t suffer that torture. It was pretty clear that Alfie and I were on the same wavelength. A cool, quiet wavelength. It wasn’t passionate, but it sure was nice. Would it last? Would it survive the immersion into high-school life and the high-school population? I didn’t know. I wasn’t worried. I was probably too young to have a boyfriend. I certainly didn’t plan it.

In the end, I figured that it was Celine’s body, Celine’s inclinations, that responded so warmly to Alfie.

Then I wondered how long I’d think of “Celine” and Celine’s body as somehow separate from me. At some point, I'll just *be* Celine, won't I?

 

---

 

Lois was only too glad to help me pick out a cute dress for the baseball game. Although she wore a pleased smile, she surprised me by not asking any questions or teasing me. I appreciated her discretion.

The teams were still warming up when I arrived at the baseball field. There were boys everywhere, but Alfie and I spotted each other right away. I smiled and gave him a low-key wave hello, but some sharp eye on his team saw our mutual smiles, and soon they were all ribbing him, chanting: “Alfie’s got a girl-friend! Alfie’s got a girl-friend.” He was embarrassed, and so was I, but I couldn’t help but smile.

Luckily, they didn’t know my name, so they couldn’t resort to singing Alfie and Celine, sittin’ in a tree…

I stood there like an idiot, smiling and blushing, looking back and forth. Somehow I couldn’t figure out where to sit. Alfie came over to say hello, accompanied by hoots and calls from his team.

“I’m glad you came,” he told me. “Just ignore those morons.”

“I’m not going to ignore them,” I told him. “I like it.”

He laughed at that, and then I said (surprised by my own boldness), “Why don’t you kiss me, so we can hear what kind of sounds they make?”

He put his hand on my shoulder and came in for a kiss. The bench went wild. They were hooting and cheering and shouting, “Go, Alfie! Go, Alfie! Go, Alfie!”

At last we broke off — we were both laughing too hard to keep our lips together.

 

---

 

Of course, now that I was beginning my first relationship as a girl, I had to go away. Sunday was the cookout. Monday was Alfie’s game. Tuesday I left for four days with Mr. Waters’ family, visiting Mystic, Connecticut.

It was a great trip. I really needed it. The adults planned it very well. “The adults” in this case were Mr. Waters’ two daughters and their husbands. Each of them took turns shepherding us kids. “Us kids” being me, Daphne, and her three cousins: a sixteen-year-old boy named Tim, and a pair of fourteen-year-old twins, Esme and Hazel. Most of the time, we were on the go: swimming, hiking, climbing, taking ziplines… We only spent one day in Mystic itself, mainly at the Aquarium.

I think I’d be hard pressed to find a time — even in my own childhood — when I had that much fun. Honestly, there hadn’t been much fun — much joy — in my life for a long while. The past ten or fifteen years, at least. My life had become an endless struggle, and one I wasn’t very well suited for. The emotional battles with Theresa were exhausting, and her year-long bout with depression was soul-killing. But here and now, on the other hand, I had people looking out for me, people whose mission (if you could call it that) was to make sure I was safe, fed, and happy.

Also, the fact that we were so physically active made it easy for us kids to get along. I didn’t worry even once about fitting in or knowing what to talk about. I realized that Lois’ suggestion that I join a sports team had a lot of merit. It could be like this trip, where everything was physical, concrete, very much in the moment. It was glorious.

I’m sure that Lois and Ken needed a break from me as well. I lay awake on Thursday night, my last night away, reflecting on all the recent upheaval in their lives. I made a list:

1. Celine pulled a stunt that was severe enough to force Ken to find a new job in a new town
2. The abrupt move meant selling their dream home, their “forever home,” at a loss
3. They bought a house in one of the least desirable parts of town
4. They found out that their daughter had been shot dead after provoking the police
5. The person they believed to be their daughter, the person they traveled with and lived with, was actually a body-swapping psychopath
6. The person now living with them as their daughter was a 42-year-old con man

Did I leave anything out? Oh, yes: Lois’ depression. She started out depressed before everything on my list, and none of it helped her, not in the slightest. Each element only made things worse. Oh, and there were three more things:

1. Before the con man became their daughter, he was planning a major heist
2. All the elements of that heist are still in the field
3. The psychopathic body-swapper had sought out their current daughter, for reasons unknown

Would Simon come back? What did he want with me? Did he even plan to swap with me in the first place? He said he had little control over switching.

I puzzled over those questions. I didn’t think Simon would come back, but then again, I never expected him to look for me at all.

My mind replayed the scene with Simon in that backyard, when he held my arm. As I got closer to sleep, the world of dreams wrapped around my thoughts, and the scene with Simon became fanciful and complicated in ways impossible to articulate. I had the mistaken impression that I somehow understood Simon’s intentions and plans, but it was only the onset of a dream As my mind opened in wonder, I drifted into the depths of sleep.

A Minority Of One : 8 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"The chief proof of man's real greatness lies in his perception
of his own smallness. It argues, you see, a power of comparison and
of appreciation which is in itself a proof of nobility."
— Sherlock Holmes , The Sign Of The Four

---

 

When I arrived home on Friday night, I was tanned, happy, and full of the energy that only teenagers are capable of. One glance at Ken and Lois told me that my absence had done them good as well. Ken had his arm around Lois, and they were both VERY happy. I wanted to observe that somebody got some! but given my place in the family dynamic, I doubted that the remark would be welcome. So I was silently happy for them, and happier still when they folded me into a three-way family hug.

I couldn’t help but start babbling about all the things we’d done on our trip, when Lois gently interrupted me, making a “slow down” gesture with her hands.

“Just a quick thing,” she told me with a smile, “Your friend Meredith is coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”

Her announcement stopped me dead. I blinked three or four times, and stood there with my mouth hanging stupidly open. Luckily, I stopped myself from asking Why? — It would have sounded awfully selfish of me. Instead, I said, “Uhhh… good! That’s real good.”

“She and I have been talking,” Lois shared.

“On the phone?” I asked.

“Of course on the phone, silly!” Lois laughed lightly. “I feel like I’ve found a friend here.”

“I’m really happy for you,” I told her. “Max— uh— Meredith! They’re a really nice person.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Her eyes twinkled.

“Um,” I said. It was all I could manage to say. Obviously, there was nothing wrong with Meredith and Lois becoming friends. Or maybe, there was nothing obviously wrong with it. On the face of it, it made perfect sense: Max, like me, had been switched into a female body, and Max — now Meredith — didn’t have the luxury that I had, of being able to literally grow into the role. Meredith was thrown into the deep end, as an adult. It made sense that she’d reach out to Lois, who was the only adult female who could understand and be willing to help.

Oh, except maybe Theresa. But from what Meredith told me on our bike ride, Theresa wasn’t very easy to separate from Leo, and Leo wasn’t very easy to talk to now.

“Why don’t you head upstairs and take a shower, honey?” Lois suggested. “Wash the trip off you, relax a bit. Don’t make the water too hot, though — it will feel good, but it will make your sunburn worse.”

“Right,” I said, still a bit stunned by the idea of Meredith coming over.

“And when you’re settled, Meredith wants you to give her a call.”

“What? Me? She said not to—”

“I know all about that. I’ll call her and then I’ll hand you the phone. Okay?”

I trooped upstairs with my bags, and stood frozen in place, like a marble statue, in the middle of my room. After a few moments of standing stock-still and stupified, I realized that I was still holding my bags. I opened my hands and let them drop to the floor. Then I went and took a shower.

Why did Meredith’s impending visit bother me? It felt like an invasion, like an interruption. I had the feeling she was going to jam a stick between my spokes.

I took a deep breath. There was no point in pretending that I didn’t understand. I knew very well what the problem was — or part of the problem, anyway. It was this new dynamic, my new role. Things had changed. I wasn’t an adult in a kid’s body any more. I was just a kid now — no matter who I was inside. If I hadn’t gone with the Marstons, if I’d become a ward of the state, things would have been this way right from the start. It was different (up to now) with the Marsons because Ken and Lois knew the score. I had a bit of a honeymoon period with them, but now the honeymoon was over.

Before the Mystic trip, I was Leo-who-looked-like-Celine. Now, I was the new Celine.

This new reality keyed into something that happened on the trip, on the second night.

It was actually one of the themes of the trip for me, but it really came to a head on Wednesday night.

Nobody in Mr. Waters’ family knew my inner reality. For them, I was just the thirteen-year-old who lived next door. When the adults would say, “Come on, kids!” or “Dinner’s ready, kids!” they were including me in that call. Like the other kids, I’d respond.

That much was new. That much I expected. It was an adjustment in any case, but I could deal with it. I just had to ignore the little voice of protest inside me, the one that whined I’m not a kid!

There were other things, too: like the park worker who checked my climbing harness, to make sure I’d done it right, or Daphne’s father, who asked whether I’d buckled my seat belt, and looked to be sure after I’d told him I had.

When we were in Mystic, walking around the Old Town, Daphne’s aunt actually bent down and tied my shoe when it came undone. I was just about to do it myself, but she got there first! It wasn’t like I was helpless or anything! While she was doing that, people walked by, glanced at her, glanced at me. I knew what they were thinking, so I cried out, “I *do* know how to tie my own shoes!” It came out with more dismay than I meant to express.

Daphne’s aunt straightened up, smiling. “I know you do, honey. I just want to make sure it doesn’t come undone again. You don’t want to trip and fall, do you, sweetie?”

All day long it was like that. Strangers would call me “little girl” or “honey” or “sweetie.” One older Southern woman called me “baby girl” and I felt something wilt inside me.

Still, all of that I could handle. I handled it all day long.

It had more of an impact when the adults said, “Okay, kids, time for bed!” and when they’d tell me to be sure to brush my teeth.

I never protested any of this. I knew it was all well meant. I knew what I looked like. There wasn’t any point in trying to make assertions or try to claim rights based on who I used to be.

A lot of how we see ourselves is conditioned by the way people treat us, and for four solid days I was treated like a little girl. At times it felt like everyone — even people we passed on the street — were building a box around me: a box that was the exact size and shape of a thirteen-year-old girl. It wasn’t as though I wanted to break out of the box — it’s just that I found it disconcerting to have to face, over and over, just how thoroughly and completely I’d been transformed.

The event that drove my new reality home occurred on the second night of our trip. All of us kids had gone to bed at ten, and Daphne, who shared a room with me, quickly dropped off to sleep. I lay awake,excited, happy, looking forward to tomorrow. I could hear the adults talking downstairs. Because the bedroom door was closed, I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were pretty lively. It sounded like fun.

I had to get up to pee, and when I came out of the bathroom, the adults’ laughter came rolling up the stairs. I couldn’t help but smile. Their laughter was infectious. Daphne’s aunt was talking about “Ronnie,” a boy they all knew back when they were in high school, and she casually mentioned that he was particularly well-endowed. Her statement was greeted with hoots of disbelief and pretended shock, and of course the others wanted to know how she knew “what he had down there.”

Without thinking, I slowly made my way down the stairs, one step at a time, taking in the story.

Daphne’s aunt had the floor: “Remember Jane Chatpern? Her parents had a house in Rhode Island. In the summer after graduation, a bunch of us went out there so we could spend the day on the beach. It got to be seven or so, and we were regrouping, getting ready for dinner. I needed to wash the sand off me, and the shower in the house was busy, so I went to use the outdoor shower. I didn’t know that Ronnie was already in there. It was all completely innocent! The latch didn’t really work — it was loose, you know? So it didn’t really lock. He was in there, facing the door, about to turn on the water, buck—” she abruptly froze, a little shocked at seeing me there on the stairs.

Daphne’s mother called out to me, “Is something wrong, honey? Can’t sleep?”

“No,” I said. “I heard you laughing and talking, so I wanted to come down hang out with you guys.”

A series of glances shot back and forth among them, and Daphne’s father said, “That’s nice, sweetie pie, but some things aren’t for little ears.”

“Um,” I began, not sure how to explain. “No, uh — it’s okay.”

“No,” Daphne’s father countered in a very firm tone. “It’s *not* okay. I’m sure your parents would want you in bed right now, not discussing adult topics with people you barely know.”

Daphne’s mother stood and came over to me. My hand rested on the bannister. She placed her hand over mine, looked up at me, and smiled. “Listen, sweetie. You run back upstairs and hop into bed. I’ll come up in a minute with some warm milk with honey. It’ll help you sleep. Then I’ll tuck you in, night-night.”

I opened my mouth in mute protest, but I could see I had no hope of prevailing here. I’d made a tactical blunder. There was nothing to do but retreat.

As I turned to go upstairs, Daphne’s father suggested, speaking to his wife, “Maybe you could quietly read her a story while you’re up there?”

“No, I’m good,” I replied, embarrassed. “Thanks for asking, though.”

“She might be a little homesick,” Daphne’s uncle suggested. “Is this her first time away from home?”

A few minutes after I settled back in bed, Daphne’s mother came quietly into the room. She put her finger to her lips. “We don’t want to wake Daphne,” she whispered. She sat on the edge of my bed and placed a warm mug of milk in my hands. “Drink up,” she said with a smile. “Are you sure you don’t need a story?” She was holding a copy of Andrew Lang’s Blue Fairy Book, and touched the end of a bookmark so I’d know she’d already chosen one.

I shook my head no. I was so mixed up inside, I couldn’t get any words out.

“You’re not scared or homesick, are you?”

Again, I shook my head no. She put her hand on the bottom of the mug, gently tipping it to make me keep drinking.

“You know, sometimes adults talk about things that children shouldn’t hear—” she began

I cut her off, saying, “I didn’t hear any stories. I just heard you guys laughing when I came out of the bathroom. I wasn’t up here listening.”

She smiled in relief, and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. “Finish up,” she prompted. “Drink it all down, honey.”

I finished, and held the mug so she could see it was empty. She dabbed at my lips with a napkin, took the mug, then kissed me on the forehead. “NIghty-night, Celine,” she said to me.

“Nighty-night,” I repeated. Then she slipped silently from the room.

I lay there for a half an hour, feeling as embarrassed and humiliated as I’ve ever felt. Then, listening to Daphne’s slow, rhythmic breathing, I dropped off to sleep.

This was my new reality. I wasn’t a 42-year-old man in a little girl’s body any more. I was just a little girl.

That new reality didn’t follow me home from Mystic. It was already here, waiting for me.

Ken, Lois, and Meredith were adults, and as such, they had a latitude and power utterly beyond my reach. They lived in a different world from me.

I was just a kid. The others had no reason to continue to treat me as an adult. I mean, I *look* like a kid. I guess I *act* like a kid most of the time. I assume and expect things, the way that children do: I expect that adults will help me and take care of me.

When I became part of this family, I had no problem letting go of all my adult responsibilities. I didn’t even think about it. Most of those responsibilities I wouldn’t be able to manage, anyway: things like earning a living, paying the bills, driving places, shopping for food, maintaining a serious lifetime relationship…

I didn’t think much about it as it was happening, but by now things had gone so far, it became existentially embarrassing. I was a dropout! I’d dropped out of adult life. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt foolish and exposed. I was living off the Marstons. It wasn’t as though I had a choice, though! Back at that military base, they couldn’t let me leave on my own. They had to give me to someone: to either the Marstons or the state. I’d have to wait five years before my life was my own again.

Given all that, there was no way I could expect Ken and Lois to treat me as though I was the third adult in the house.

And *that* was the problem with Meredith coming over, or with Meredith talking to Lois. I was irrelevant. I had zero control, zero choice. Meredith could say any crazy thing she liked about me. She could spill all my secrets, my past misdeeds, my problems with Theresa… She could even make things up out of whole cloth, if she felt so inclined, and there was nothing I could do about it. Meredith had plenty of darts she could casually stick into me. She might stick me badly without meaning to, or even realizing that she’d done so.

She was such a different person now. Her transformation from Max to Meredith was an upheaval. Her life was now a mirror image of what it used to be. As Max, he was totally predictable and habit-driven — at times he was downright boring. He was methodical, conventional, slow and dependable… As Meredith? My brief encounter with her made me very uneasy. She seemed to have slipped her moorings. She was dangerous, unpredictable, volatile, like a hand grenade with a loose pin, rolling around, just out of reach.

Still, there was one topic Meredith couldn’t use against me: the idea for the heist. For the first time, I was glad that I told Ken and Lois. Luckily, I’d disarmed that landmine, but who knows what other explosives Meredith could casually drop?

As soon as I was clean, dry, and dressed in my PJs, I came downstairs to the kitchen. Lois, still smiling, called Meredith, and after a brief exchange, handed me the phone.

“Hey, Meredith,” I said. “How’re you doing?”

“Better,” she said. “With Lois’ help, and some… other stuff.”

I frowned, not understanding. Lois, still smiling, left the kitchen.

“What other stuff?”

“Ohhh,” she said, with a soft sigh, “I mean sex. Sex is the ‘other stuff.’ Let me tell you, it’s so much better as a woman. You’ll see. You’ll find out.”

“Are you talking about sex… I mean, are you having sex with men? Or did you go the other way?” I asked in a low voice.

“With a man, with one man — so far. It’s the Ponzi guy.”

My jaw dropped. My eyes popped in surprise. “Uhh, okay,” I said, more than a little shocked. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It can’t be bad, because it feels so good,” she said. “It’s *better* than good. It’s wild! He puts his hands all over me. He touches me everywhere, and I love it. He makes me scream — in the good way. Oh my God, how he loves to touch me.” I was about to say something, but she cut in: “Oh, Celine — when I said it was wild, I mean ‘wild’ in a good way.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Meredith let out of a sigh of pleasure. I’m sure she meant it to be sexy, but it only irritated me.

“That’s great, Meredith,” I said, but my tone said, I really don’t need to hear this. “Do you talk to Lois about all this?”

“Oh, yes! And she’s a great resource! You’ll see. When you’re older. When you need guidance… in the intimate things... in the world of… in the female world, the feminine world.”

“Oh, God,” I groaned, involuntarily.

“Listen, Celine: I can see that you’re too young to hear about these things, and honestly, I don’t want to offend your sensitive ears…”

“Yes, good. Please don’t. Remember — seriously — I’m a child, a minor. Spare me the intimate details. Don’t make me cover my ears.”

“Okay.”

“Can you just skip ahead to the punch line? Why did you want to talk with me?”

“Okay, yes. You know I’m coming over for dinner tomorrow. What I was wondering is that maybe you wouldn’t want to be there?”

“What?” She really threw me for a loop there. It was a twist I never saw coming.

“Well, your mother said you have a boyfriend now.”

“Uhhh,” the words caught in my throat.

“And I thought, maybe you’d like to have dinner with him, instead of an old lady like me. I mean, you’ve been away for a week, right?”

“Four days.”

“So you’ve been counting the days. See?”

“Meredith, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to suggest—”

“I’m sure Lois has worked out the details. She just wanted you to talk with me so you’d know I was cool with it.”

“Uh—” Again, she’d caught me up short. I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t as though I gave a toss about whether Meredith would mind, but when she put it that way, she shifted the ground and threw me off balance.

“Look, Celine: just talk with Lois now and see, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Great! I owe you… a great big hug! Bye, now!” And with that, she hung up.

A great big hug?

Lois came in and saw my look of confusion. “This is so weird,” I said. “And awkward.”

“It’s only awkward if we make it awkward,” she told me. “Meredith needs to spend time with grown-ups. Preferably not the ones next door — Leo and Theresa.”

“True,” I agreed.

“It will be easier for her if you’re not there.”

I gave a acquiescing shrug. “Okay, I get that. But please, tell me that you didn’t call Alfie’s parents.”

“But I thought you *liked* Alfie, don’t you?”

“Sure, I like him, but I’m not ready to marry him. We’re only thirteen, both of us. I barely know him.”

“Okay, but listen: his mother is going to the flea market in Lakeside tomorrow. She’s bringing Alfie to carry her things. If you go along, Alfie won’t complain like he usually does. And she says the flea market is a lot of fun.”

I grunted. I’m not sure what my grunt was supposed to mean, but at the very least it signalled that I’d heard.

“And then dinner afterward. Dave and Ken will be working the evening shift, so it’ll just be you three.”

“Oh, God,” I moaned.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said. “I’m sure it will be fun.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. But, hey — can I step out of my role as a teenager for a moment, and ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Meredith told me that she’s having sex with the Ponzi guy—”

“Right.”

“— and you know that he — the Ponzi guy — was having sex with Theresa up to now?”

“That’s over now.”

“Okay, but do you know whether he’s screwing his assistant as well?”

“Oh… I didn’t know he had an assistant.”

“Mmm, yes, he does.”

“Hmm! That could be a delicate question, but I’ll see whether I can find out.”

“Okay, I don’t actually want to know the answer to that question. I’m just thinking about Meredith.”

“Okay,” Lois said. “And, Celine? Please don’t let me hear you use the word screwing again. It’s indelicate.”

 

---

 

Saturday morning at ten, Mrs. Mustone came to pick me up. The flea market was, as I said, in Lakeside, which is the part of Lambeth that faces the lake; the part where the rich people live. I’d heard of it, but in all the years I lived in Lambeth, I’d never ventured there.

“Isn’t it funny that the flea market is on the rich side of town?” I said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Mustone agreed. “There are a lot of things that are classy if you’re rich, and trashy if you’re not.”

“Like what?” Alfie queried.

“Being bilingual, for one,” she replied. “Owning chickens, for another. Or.. let’s see… living in a ‘little house.’ Hmm. I’m sure there are others.”

“Okay, Ma! That’s plenty!”

“Well, you asked me!” she protested.

We parked at a big parking lot at the western end of Lakeside. Honestly, it was Lakeside in name only. There’s Lakeside, then this parking lot, and then a huge, flat field, which was now full of canopies, tables, and little roped-off areas.

“The best thing about this place,” Alfie told me, “is the Mexican Street Food stand. Did you ever have beef tongue?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well you can have some of mine, if you like,” he said, and when his mother wasn’t looking, he stuck out his tongue and waggled it at me, smiling as he did so, and watching for my reaction.

“That’s very bold of you,” I said. I tried to sound neutral, but couldn’t manage to hide my amusement.

We didn’t hold hands, but every so often our hands touched and we gently bumped into each other.

Again, I was struck by how easily I’d fallen into this, the boy-girl thing. It wasn’t a decision. There wasn’t any point where I said, “I’m going to like boys now.” It just seemed to happen, to start and grow, all by itself. I was glad once again that Reddie had blazed a trail for me, so to speak. At least conceptually, I had a model for someone who had once been a boy and became a girl, and then found a man who suited her perfectly.

While we wandered, I thought about Meredith. I was glad she had Lois to talk to, and I was VERY glad that I wasn’t going to be part of their dinner conversation. I was happy to get out of her way. Hopefully, she wouldn’t muddy the waters for me while she sought her own clarity.

I scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces, but didn’t find any. I wondered whether the Ponzi guy might be here as well, but I had no idea what he looked like.

Surprisingly, Alfie and I had a lot to talk about. I asked him what he knew about Tallmadge High, and it turned out that he had a lot of useful info. Growing up here as he did, he’d been to the school building a number of times for local events, so he had a sense of the physical layout. Also he had an older cousin who was entering junior year. It turned out that Alfie had been asking questions of his cousin, trying to get ready — exactly as I was — and Alfie was happy to share what he knew so far.

After we exhausted that topic, Alfie asked me where we’d lived before Lambeth. Luckily, I’d prepared for exactly that question — I’d done some reading about Cincinnatti, which is where the Morstens lived last. I also had stories and recollections I’d gotten from Ken.

“You make it sound like a wonderful place!” he exclaimed. “Why on earth did you ever move?”

His question caught me up short. Why indeed? I remembered how wistfully Lois had spoken about the forever home they’d left behind. And the stories I told? As I said, they were Ken’s stories, and without thinking, I rendered them with all the warmth and affection that Ken expressed when he told the stories to me. That was where the feeling of wonderful came from, the emotional background that Alfie perceived and reacted to. I mimicked it in my retelling, and he naturally took the feelings as my own.

“Why did we move?” I repeated aloud, and internally asked myself, How did Ken and Lois manage to leave the place they loved?

Alfie smiled. “Yeah, why did you?”

“Oh, I screwed up,” I told him, and felt my spirit deflate a little. “I did something bad. Something really bad.” My voice sank to a lower register as I spoke.

“I can’t believe that,” he said, still smiling. He took my hand.

“I wasn’t a very nice person,” I told him. As I lifted my face to look into his, a huge tear welled up in my left eye. It was true: I wasn’t a nice person. Leo Bliston was not a good man.

Suddenly my life and Celine’s collided, meshed, and merged into one thing. She and I — me and her — we had stolen the lives of the people around us, the people who loved us most, the people who were closest to us — and we burnt those lives down. We exploited our friends, used them, carried them along for our own purposes, and devastated their own plans, their own joys. We were selfish, self-centered, and never stopped to consider how we affected the people around us. Not only did we lack empathy, neither of us had a sense of right and wrong. Well, I’m sure we did *know*: We knew right from wrong, but wrong and bad were a lot more exciting than right and good. Even more than that, wrong and bad were a hell of a lot easier and a lot more satisfying.

As these awakenings, these stabs of conscience and memory passed through my mind and washed across my face, Alfie — who waited and watched, began to feel confused — and a little worried. “I can’t believe that,” he repeated. “You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”

That did it. Once he said those words, loaded with his sweet sincerity and trust, I couldn’t hold back any more. The fat, round tears that had gathered in my eyes rolled down my cheeks, and my body shook with silent sobs.

In spite of being startled by my sudden transformation, Alfie had the consideration and presence of mind to take me by the shoulders and guide me behind the tent-like booths to a spot where no one could see us. He held me while I cried, and let me soak his t-shirt with my tears. I clung to him and wept like a child. I had no choice; it I couldn’t stop.

Alfie drew the line, though, when I began to snuffle. He pushed me a little away from him and pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket, which he unfolded and put in my hands. I blew my nose and dried my eyes.

“Wow, you’re a real gentleman! You actually carry a handkerchief!” I said, trying to make light of the situation.

“Uh, yeah.”

I sniffed. “Sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Seemed like you needed to let it out.” He grinned and kissed my cheek. “Sometime you’ll have to tell me what an awful person you are. I’ve got to say, you hide it well.” He smiled as he said it.

“I was,” I insisted. “I was awful, terrible. I really was.”

“Right, sure,” he said. “Can we go find my mother now? Are you okay to go back out there? And, um, you can keep that handkerchief.”

 

---

 

We wandered for five minutes before we found his mother. She was staring at a bunch of paintings. Well, not actual painting paintings. They were framed posters of old works of art. There was a wide variety of styles, from Leonardo da Vinci to Andy Warhol.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Mrs. Mustone asked me, drawing me close to her and putting her arm around me. Clearly, she could tell I’d been crying. “Do you see any that you particularly like?”

I ran my eye over the display, still feeling the aftereffects of my weepy emotional release.

One of the paintings did strike me. Once I saw it, none of the others compared. It was a Renaissance painting of a woman sitting in a chair, looking — well, I want to say she was looking into the camera even though it’s not correct. She has a baby on her lap, and another child standing next to her.

“I like that one,” I said.

“What do you like about it? What is it that draws you?” she asked me, sounding surprised.

“Her face,” I said. “She’s beautiful… but she looks a little tired and a little sad. She looks real. It’s like she doesn’t want her picture taken, but she lets it happen anyway. Do you know what I mean? What is this painting?”

The vendor said, “It’s the Madonna della seggiola by Raphael Sanzio. Twelve bucks.”

“That’s a pretty good price,” Mrs. Mustone said to me. “Would you like it?”

“Um, yeah, I guess I would,” I said. I wasn’t 100% sure that I wanted it, but I felt I’d been put on the spot. In any case, there wasn’t anything hanging on my bedroom walls, so this would be a start. I fished in my pockets for the money Lois had given me to spend.

“No, let me get it for you,” Mrs. Mustone said. “Let it be a little present from me to you. Okay?”

 

---

 

The rest of Saturday was pretty low key. It was nice. Mrs. Mustone was really sweet. Dinner was great — manicotti, salad, garlic bread.. After dinner we watched The Irishman, starring Robert de Niro, Joe Pesci, and Al Pacino. None of us liked it. We were all bored, colossally bored, but no one dared say so until the entire three hours of it were over.

Then Alfie stood up, stretched, his arms high over his head, and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ! That was sooo long! Way too long! Oh my God! And nothing happened!”

“Alfie, language,” his mother said gently.

“Why did they talk so much about that fish at the end?” I demanded.

“Why was it called The Irishman?” Alfie demanded. “He could have been German or Greek or anything! They could have called it That Guy Over There.”

“The whole thing could have been shorter,” Mrs. Mustone admitted.

“It is what it is,” Alfie said, imitating de Niro.

“And it’s not what it’s not,” I added, in Pesci’s voice.

“Well, now we can say we watched it,” Mrs. Mustone concluded. “At least we have that.”

 

---

 

By the time Mrs. Mustone drove me home, I was pretty beat. It was eleven, which was early for me when I was Leo Bliston, but late for Celine. My metabolism and my inner clock were drastically different now. Alfie and I sat in the back seat and held hands in a loose way. When we arrived at my house, he walked me to my front door. We had a quick kiss, and I smiled at him as I closed the door behind me.

I have to say, I was liking the way things were going. It was simple, uncomplicated. I liked the way we held hands — loose, sometimes barely touching. I never liked the palm-to-palm grasp that I grew up with. My hand always got sweaty, and I never knew when I could let go. With Alfie, our hands would brush, touch, and only sometimes give a brief squeeze. It wasn’t a commitment or a declaration to the world. It was for us, like a private ping: I’m here. Are you there?

My mother and Meredith were still talking excitedly in the kitchen. They hadn’t heard me come in. In order to avoid explaining my picture, I set it down in the entryway, leaning it against the wall. After taking a deep breath, I stepped into the kitchen, so I could tell Lois that I was home.

When I entered the room, the two of them looked up quickly, as though I’d caught them in the middle... of something; who knows what. They were probably deep into a topic that “wasn’t for little ears.” It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. It was kind of cute. Whatever it was, it was fun and funny for them.. The table had the remnants of apple pie and coffee, but it was clear from the empty bottle on the counter and the particular way they smiled, that they’d both had more than one glass of wine. Neither of them appeared drunk, but their faces were flushed with alcohol, shared secrets, and the excitement of a new friendship. Whatever they were saying when I entered, they abruptly stopped and stared at me, grinning, mouths slightly agape.

“Hi, I’m home,” I said.

“Oh, there she is!” Meredith exclaimed.

“Hi, honey, come over here and give your old mom a hug,” Lois said, with more warmth than usual.

I dutifully trooped over and submitted to a hug, first from Lois, then from Meredith, and then gave in to a group hug that was awkward, but mercifully brief.

“How did it go?” Lois asked.

“Did you have a nice time with your boyfriend?” Meredith teased, almost singing the last word.

“It was nice,” I said. “It was great. Except that we watched The Irishman. *Not* recommended.”

“Which Irishman?” Meredith asked. “What was he doing? Why were you watching him?”

Lois, laughing, swatted Meredith gently with the back of her hand. “The movie, silly!” They both laughed.

Then Meredith queried, “Which movie?”

“The Irishman!” Lois shouted, shaking with laughter. Meredith shrugged, puzzled. I had to get out of there.

“Okay, now I’m home, but I’m really beat. Do you mind if I go up to bed?”

“Yes, yes, honey!” Lois exclaimed. “Go to bed. You need your sleep to help you grow.” Then she jumped out of her chair and hugged me again.

As I was leaving the room, I almost warned Meredith to drive safely, but I realized it would sound awfully precocious, coming from a thirteen-year-old girl. So I just said, “It was nice to see you, Meredith.” Then I took my painting and went up to bed.

 

---

 

That night I had the deepest, most refreshing sleep since I became Celine, and maybe for a long time before. I even slept late! For the first time, my eyes didn’t snap open at 5:30. Today I didn’t wake until nine.

When I sat up on the edge of my bed, I spotted my new picture. It didn’t look the same to me as it did yesterday. If anything, the woman looked even less happy at having her picture taken. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “Things will get better.”

I padded downstairs, still in my pajamas, and heard my parents talking. It was mostly Lois, describing her conversation with Meredith. She was still happy, excited, positive. It was nice to hear her sound so alive for a change.

Hopefully, it would last.

“I’m surprised she told you all that,” Ken was saying. “That’s pretty private information.”

“Oh, it’s just money,” Lois said, in a breezy way.

“A million dollars is a lot of money!” Ken exclaimed.

“That’s just her — his insurance policy! That doesn’t count the house, or the 401k!”

I walked into the kitchen at that point, and Lois beamed at me. “There she is! Hello, sleepyhead!”

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” Ken said with a smile.

“No, I’m surprised I slept so late. This is the first time.” Usually I just jammed a handful of granola into my mouth at breakfast time, and drank some milk from the carton, but today, Lois made pancakes, so I sat at the table and ate like a civilized person. The pancakes were very fluffy and very tasty.

“Max had a million-dollar insurance policy?” I asked.

Ken and Lois looked at me askance, so I said, “Am I not supposed to know?”

The two of them glanced at each other, then Lois laughed. “I’m sorry, honey! Do you know, I think I’ve finally settled into seeing you as a teenage girl. I just don’t expect certain things to come out of your mouth.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ken said. “When you asked that, my first reaction was that’s not something a kid should know.”

“Don’t worry — I won’t repeat it,” I assured them. “When I ran into Meredith on my bike, she mentioned some of that stuff. Is she still set on dividing all of Max’s assets with Theresa?”

“Yes,” Lois answered, but in a strangely cautious way. I figured this was more of the not for little ears territory, and after the mega-dose I received on my trip, I found it a little galling.

More to Ken than to me, she said, “Meredith’s having some trouble selling the house, though. That’s a big hold-up.”

Intent on reclaiming some of my lost adult status, I spoke up and said, “Regardless of how the housing market is doing, I know Max got a great deal when he bought that house, and he paid it off years ago. Meredith may not make much of a profit, but it isn’t like she’s underwater. If she wants to get out, she ought to consider anything she gets as money in her pocket.”

“It isn’t that,” Lois told me. “It’s held up in probate.”

“Oh,” I said, deflating a bit. I don’t know anything about probate. Lois, as if reading my mind, and rubbing it in, asked me, “You don’t know anything about probate, do you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Mmm,” Lois said, nodding.

I scratched my eyebrow, then I sat on my hands. To break Lois’s gaze, I glanced at Ken, who had a weird, abstracted look on his face, as though he was about to sneeze.

It wasn’t a sneeze. He was trying to remember something. It suddenly came to him, and he nodded.

“Now I know what this reminded me of! All this talk about Meredith providing for Theresa — it reminds me of Breaking Bad.”

“Is that the show where Bryan Cranston makes meth?” Lois asked. “Believe me, Meredith is NOT going to be doing that.”

“No, no — it isn’t that! What I remember isn’t the meth — it’s what I realized after. When I’d seen the whole thing, all the episodes, it suddenly hit me that the motivation for everything he did, was to provide for his family. He thought he was going to die, and he didn’t want to leave his family in the lurch. It was his suburban-father ethos, but he went to an extreme.”

Lois’ face changed. Her excitement and happiness stopped, stock still. “Hmmph,” was her only comment, but her smile disappeared. Ken recognized his misstep. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done, but he knew he’d broken Lois’ mood. So he tried a different tack. He asked me, “What are your plans for the day?”

“Um, I guess I ought to clean my room,” I said. “And I have a picture to hang. Mrs. Mustone got it for me at the flea market yesterday.” They wanted to see it, so I ran upstairs and brought it down. I tried to explain what I saw in the woman’s face, but I could tell they didn’t get it.

Ken and Lois exchanged a quick glance, and he asked, “Are you religious, Celine?”

“Religious?” I repeated, and burst out laughing. “No, why?”

He mutely gestured at my picture.

“This?” I said. “It’s just a picture.”

“It’s a Madonna.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I guess it is.” I looked at it again. “For me, though, she’s just a woman. I like her face. I’m intrigued by her expression.”

“Okay,” Ken said. “But if you ever feel the need to attend some kind of church or whatever—”

“No, no,” I assured him. “I don’t. I won’t. Don’t worry. It’s just a picture.”

“Did Mrs. Mustone choose it for you?”

“No, *I* picked it. In fact, she was surprised that I liked this one. I think she expected me to choose something more modern. She asked me what I liked about it.” I studied the face while I spoke.

“So what was it you liked about it?” Ken asked.

“It looks like she didn’t want her picture taken. I know it doesn’t make sense. That’s what I like. And besides that, I want a picture on my wall. There are no pictures on my walls.”

 

---

 

After the conversation in the kitchen, I briefly considered hiding the picture in my closet, but I took another look. This time it seemed as though the woman was protecting something. Obviously, the baby… but also herself. And maybe something else. She looked like she had a secret. Like Reddie Barnes, I thought. Like me. So I drove a nail into the wall and hung the picture on my otherwise empty wall.

 

---

 

I cleaned my room. It didn’t take long. I opened the window to freshen the air. Then I changed my sheets, vacuumed, and dusted the furniture. I was just about to turn on the computer and get started with social media, when Lois stuck her head in.

“I wanted to get back to you on something,” she said in a low voice. Clearly she didn’t want Ken overhearing. “You asked me whether the Ponzi guy was having sex with his assistant. He’s not.”

At first, I wanted to interrupt and say that I didn’t want to know, but when I heard the whole thing, I was puzzled, and had to ask, “How do you know?”

“Because she left. The assistant left. She quit, or was fired. In any case, she was gone before the Ponzi guy took up with Meredith.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for telling me.”

Lois didn’t respond, but before she walked away, she gave me a knowing smile, a somewhat superior look, as if to say You don’t know everything!

It rankled me. In the first place, I didn’t care about being right or wrong. I was simply concerned — or at least curious — about Meredith. It sounded like she’d fallen head-over-heels for the Ponzi guy — a man we all knew was a criminal. If he was monogamous (albeit serially monogamous), that fact didn’t make him a saint.

In addition, I felt that my contribution and concern wasn’t being given much weight because of my apparent age. It’s not that they didn’t want to hear from me; it’s just that I’m only thirteen, so what could I know?

I looked at my Madonna. Now she looked coy and secretive. “Are you some kind of Rorschach test?” I asked her out loud. “Are you going to change every time I look at you?”

Reddie Barnes was more my speed, I told myself. She was just a little ahead of me. This Madonna, on the other hand, exists in another world. All I can know of that world is what I’m able to read in her face.

I sat down at my computer, and after thinking for a bit, I created an email account. They asked me for my cell phone number, which I couldn’t give them, but I was able to create the account anyway. I considered whether I should get a Facebook account. I dithered for a while, then decided that when school started, I’d see whether the other kids had Facebook accounts. I’d wait, and decide then.

I made a Twitter account, and by the time I was done with that, I was feeling lost. I’d never concerned myself with the internet at all, let alone social media. I took a look at Instagram, but they too asked for my phone number.

It sucked to be thirteen. Well, not really. What sucked was not having any money. If I were still Leo, if I needed a phone, I’d just go buy one. Sure, right now I could go downstairs and ask Lois when we were going to take care of that, but I didn’t feel like talking to her at the moment.

So, planning ahead: I figured I could spend a few hours each day on Twitter until I understood it. Once I had a grip on that, and once I had a phone, I could work on Instagram. In the meantime, I could ask Alfie which apps kids around here used. That is, if Alfie knew. He was a jock; I don’t know whether he spends any time online.

After an hour and a quarter at the computer, I’d had enough. On a scratch pad I wrote Video games? Computer games? — Weren’t they a part of a teenager’s social life? I added another line to my scratch pad: Look online for articles on how teenagers spend their time.

I also jotted Music. Magazines? Movies? TV shows?

By now I wasn’t just tired of staring at the screen. I was also getting a little hungry. Time for a snack.

I was on the third or fourth stair from the top when I realized that Lois was on the phone. Her voice was happy again. Excited, even. It didn’t take long for me to realize that she was talking to Meredith. It quickly became clear from her remarks that Meredith was talking about sex.

I sighed and went back to my room. From there, I could hear Lois’ voice but not make out what she was saying. I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, waiting. Every so often my stomach would rumble. I was pretty hungry, and the hunger and the waiting made me irritable and impatient.

After five minutes that seemed like an hour, I decided to go downstairs and quietly make myself a sandwich or something. I’d just have to block out Lois’ phone conversation.

To my relief, I heard her goodbyes as I descended the stairs, and she hung up the phone before I set foot in the kitchen.

“Well!” Lois said, beaming.

“Well, well,” I replied, nonsensically.

“Meredith is doing really well,” she said. “Really well.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned. “You’re not going to tell me about her sex life now, are you?”

“What? No! Of course not!” Lois said with a laugh.

I opened the refrigerator and stared inside, waiting for inspiration. Lois gave me a coy look, which I found unnerving.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” I asked.

“Well, if you *must* know,” Lois replied, “Meredith and I were talking about your plan.”

The blood drained from my face in an instant.

A Minority Of One : 9 / 9

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

“Such terrible things seemed no longer incredible.”
— Zane Grey , The Trail Driver

---

 

“No,” I said. “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.” My legs felt weak. I closed the fridge and dropped into a chair. My hands were trembling.

“Yes, we did!” Lois countered. “And calm down, will you? Seriously! We were only talking! No one is going to *do* anything. We’re not criminals, Celine. All we did was walk through it. A conversation. We were only playing, you know? Using our imaginations. It was like writing a mystery novel. We did the whole thing, from beginning to end. We worked out all the weak points. We filled in all the parts that were missing.”

My heart started pounding. “You’re not thinking of doing it, are you?”

Lois frowned and shook her head. “No, of course not! Aren’t you listening? I’ve already told you, I don’t know how many times! We were just… intrigued. We were curious. It turned out to be pretty exciting! And a lot of fun! Like writing a screenplay, you know? For a movie. The perfect crime.”

“It’s not a perfect crime,” I told her. “Even if you filled in all the holes and ironed out all the kinks, it still wouldn’t be a perfect crime.”

“Maybe it wasn’t before, but it is now.”

I could see that Lois was getting a little irritated by my resistance. She put her hands on her hips and demanded, “Do you think you’re the only one who can have ideas like this? Meredith is pretty smart, you know. She’s a computer programmer. And I’m no slouch, either!”

“Of course,” I said. “I know that. But I also know that between you and Meredith, that *you* are the sensible one. Are you sure that she isn’t thinking of doing this herself?”

“No, why would she? She doesn’t need money. Plus, she’s got that Ponzi guy wrapped around her little finger. She’s leading him around by his you-know-what! I wouldn’t be surprised if they got married. Or at least ran off together.”

My breath caught in my throat. Things were getting crazier by the minute. So far, my protests had done nothing but rankle Lois. I had to proceed with caution. Right now, the most important thing was to make certain that NO ONE tried to pull off the heist. In this exact moment, everything else was secondary. There was no point in getting pedantic about what constitutes a “perfect” crime. And it wouldn’t help if I made Lois angry or ruined her good mood. I didn’t want her storming off, or sulking off, before we were done talking. Clearly, now was not the moment to point out that if Meredith and the Ponzi guy ran off together, it would be a crime in itself: they’d be running with stolen money.

Lois scoffed. “And do you know something else, Miss Smarty-Pants? it’s not as hard as you make it out to be. Meredith could do it. All by herself.”

Again I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Look,” I said. “She’s not a criminal. There are things she hasn’t considered. There are things I don’t think she’ll be able to do.”

“Such as?”

“For one thing, how will she open the safe?”

“That’s the best part! She already has the combination! She was cleaning his office one day, dusting his desk, and she lifted up his desk lamp. There it was! Written on a piece of paper and taped to the bottom of the lamp. It was a series of numbers. She tried it on the safe, and the safe opened! She quickly closed it, but now she knows it works! Meredith says that people often do that with their passwords. She says if you ever need somebody’s computer password, the first place to look is on the underside of their keyboard.”

“Oh!” I was quite surprised. “I didn’t know that. You have to admit, though: it was a stroke of pure luck.”

“So what? Why does that matter? She *has* the combination. How were *you* going to open the safe?”

“I was going to ask Meredith and Theresa to install tiny cameras at various angles around the safe, and watch him type the combination.”

“Hmmph! That doesn’t sound very likely!”

“It’s a known method,” I countered, aware of how lame it sounded. “That’s how crooks get ATM codes.”

Lois shrugged. “What else do you think Meredith can’t do?”

“Meredith might get greedy and try to take all the money.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Two things — The first thing is the capacity of Meredith’s van. Based on the amount of money Theresa saw in the safe, the van can’t hold it all, and if you *did* fill it, the van wouldn’t be able to haul it. It would break down from the load. The second thing is that the Ponzi guy has to be left with enough money to run with. If he has a big enough pile of money, he will disappear. Everyone will think he took *all* the money, and no one will look for Meredith. But if she leaves him with little or nothing, he will have no choice: he’ll blame her for everything, and put the police on her trail.”

“Interesting,” Lois said, but she didn’t seemed convinced. She also seemed to have lost interest in the topic — or at least, she was done talking to me about it. However, there was still one more point I had to make, in case Meredith had serious intentions.

“One last thing is that Meredith will need to stay in town and sit on the money. I don’t know whether she’ll be able to do that. If she gives a significant amount to Theresa and Leo, it will multiply the problem.”

“What problem?”

“If she runs off with the money, it will be an implicit confession of guilt. That’s why she has to stay here. She has to know where to hide the money, and she has to know what to *do* with the money.”

Lois huffed with impatience. “What to DO with it? That’s easy! You spend it!”

“No, you can’t! You can’t put the money in the bank, and you can’t make big purchases.”

“Then what’s the point of taking the money in the first place?”

“If you’re smart, you can parcel the money out, and never have to work again. Over time, you can employ money-laundering schemes to make the money appear legitimate.”

Lois stood silent for half a minute. Again she said, “interesting” in an uninterested way. After a long pause, she said, “You know, you’ve spent a lifetime inventing ways of lying, cheating, and stealing from people. I hope, in the future, you’ll be able to use that mind of yours for something constructive. Something lawful and good. So Ken and I can be proud to say that you’re our daughter. Try to think about that.” Then she left the kitchen, went into the living room, and turned on the TV.

I sat there, stunned. This was bad, very, very bad. I was scared, and for once I was scared for someone other than myself. If Meredith stole that money — if Meredith tried to steal that money, it was bound to end badly for her.

Another thought came to me, one that made me feel far worse: If Lois relays my objections to Meredith, would they prevent Meredith from committing the crime? Or would they make her feel better prepared? Or worse, would she feel angry and try to pull the caper just to show me up?

I put my head in my hands. Something else occurred to me that I was sure they hadn’t considered: How vengeful was the Ponzi guy? If Meredith pulled off the heist, and took all the money, his best move would be to go after her. And even if Ponzi *did* run away, how much effort, money, and time would he put into hunting Meredith and getting his money back? What lengths would he go to? How badly would he try to hurt her?

 

---

 

In the end, the only way I could calm down was to try to convince myself that Lois was right: It was only a thought experiment, a fictional crime. I felt 100% sure that Lois herself had zero inclination to break the law. I could see that she wasn’t tempted in the least. The idea of a huge pile of money didn’t make her salivate. The fact that it was someone else’s money, money she hadn’t earned, money she had no claim on, took it completely out of any consideration.

Meredith, on the other hand, had become a person I no longer knew. Then again, did I ever really know her? Even when she was Max? For all I knew, his boring, predictable personality was only a patina that hid a chaotic hedonist. Maybe Max was only good because he never had the opportunity to be bad.

In any case, Meredith might be seriously tempted. She might be reckless enough to want to do it, but was she stupid enough to actually try?

I wanted to say no to that question, but it was a matter of fact that one of my last acts as Leo was to try to tempt my friends (including Max) into the heist: to not only try, but to succeed in extracting that pile of money. Back then, the possibility of Max, Meredith, and Theresa helping me steal seemed a viable possibility.

Drawing a shaky breath, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I told myself over and over, They were only playing a game. It was nothing but talk. They aren’t criminals. They would never do anything wrong.

 

---

 

A week went by, pretty much without event. It was a busy week for Alfie, though: he had three games, one of them away. I went to all of them. One of the unexpected benefits of becoming a baseball fan was getting to know Claire, a girl my age who also came to all the games. Claire was a pretty girl with long straight hair. She came from a family with money: if her clothes and accessories didn’t make that clear, her conversation and behavior certainly did.

The first thing I learned from her was the wisdom of bringing your own cushion to the games. “The seats are so hard,” she explained, “And you don’t know who sat there before you.”

“Are you worried about cooties?” I asked, with a teasing grin.

She hesitated and looked me in the face before responding. I think she was trying to determine my exact intention: Did I say it to mock her? Did I want to offend? Was it possible that I was so immature that I actually believed in cooties?

She decided I was trying to be funny (and failing), but she couldn’t miss a chance to tell me something I CLEARLY didn’t know.

“Cooties?” she repeated. “Hardly. Unlike some people, I like to keep my clothes clean. Consequently, I’m careful where I sit.”

I nodded. She was right. Beginning with the very next game, I always brought my own cushion. She acknowledged it with a nod and a little smile, and the nature of our association was defined then and there.

Claire had zero interest in baseball, but she had a very active interest in James, who pitched for Alfie’s team. Claire liked to talk, and as I was her only possible audience, she arrived late and planted herself next to me at every game. She couldn’t hide the fact that she was a snob, but as none of her peers were there, so she had to make do with me.

Baseball had never held my interest before, so I was surprised to find I’d somehow, in the course of my life, absorbed most of the rules. Claire talked the entire time, either to me or on her phone, but even while we were talking I kept an eye on the game.

Completely unaware of how it might offend, Claire cautioned me to not speak to her while she on the phone. In fact, I shouldn’t make any kind of sound. “If you’re going to shout and cheer, move down there,” she said, waving her hand down the empty bleacher row. “I don’t want to have to explain who I’m here with.”

On another occasion, she mistakenly thought she spotted one of her friends walking a dog on the road near the baseball field. Horrified at the idea of being seen at a baseball game — and even worse, being seen with me — a girl outside her social class — and worse yet, being friendly with such a girl — she gave me a shove and hissed, “Move down the bench! Move down there! Go! Go!”

When it became clear that the dog-walker was not her friend at all, she said, “You can come back now, but be ready!”

I didn’t mind. Once summer ended, I doubted that I’d see her again. She and James were attending a private school far from Tallmadge High, where Alfie and I would go. It would have been nice to be her friend, but being Claire’s audience suited me just fine. Claire was my window into the world of girls my age. I made mental notes of things she mentioned. Sometimes I made actual written notes, on the palm of my hand, for things I was sure I’d forget. She found this oddly amusing, as if it were a primitive activity she happened to observe while slumming.

I soon came to realize that I regarded her in a similar way: as a native of a foreign culture, a practicant of unusual rituals, a holder of obscure, yet parochial, knowledge and know-how. We were so different, we might as well have come from different planets.

When she feigned surprise that we “only” had one house and one car, she asked whether we at least had a boat. “Where do you go in the summer?” she asked, bewildered. I shrugged, because I had no answer. It was summer now, and we were at home.

In a way, both Claire and I were like anthropologists. We had a mutual otherness. I came to know that her friends called me “the girl who writes on her hand,” just as she came to know that Alfie’s teammates called her “the rich girl with long hair.”

So far, I had three guides into teenage femininity: Reddie Barnes, my Rorschach Madonna, and now Claire.

Reddie Barnes’ active presence in my life ceased once I finished the last page of The Trail Driver. My Madonna had begun to look the same each time I’d see her. Somehow she lost her Rorschach quality — now, she was a girl who was a little tired and a little coy, who was used to being stared at, but didn’t want her picture taken. I still liked the painting, but it wasn’t as alive as when I first saw it.

Claire was my new guide, and she was pleased to be in that role. She enjoyed explaining the relative merits of various brands of shampoo vis-à-vis the various types of hair, the cultivation of perfect nails, and the effects of various foods on one’s complexion. She was full of practical tips, such as how to deal with acne and unwanted facial hair. (“Not that I have either problem!”) She also had a lot of things to say about boys — what they want, how they think, and so on.

Principally, though, what I looked for and learned from her was how she talked, how she spent her time, what music she listened to, what apps she had on her phone.

She often made comments on what I was wearing and what I could do with my hair. She once pointed out the difference between our shoes. NOT, however, how much better and more expensive hers were than mine, but how much cleaner hers were. Mine were splattered with mud and dirt. Hers were pristine, as though she’d just bought them, taken them from the box for the first time, and put them on at that exact moment.

“We’re in the middle of a baseball field!” I exclaimed. “How can your shoes be that clean?”

“I’m a girl,” she said. “I have to be careful where I walk.”

I’m a girl, too! I told myself, and from that moment, I too, was careful where I walked.

As you might imagine, Claire sometimes got on my nerves. One day, she was talking about cosmetics, comparing brands. At one point, I asked her whether the items she described as “the essentials” were expensive.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “Does it matter?”

My answer was a scathing look. It alarmed her; she was taken aback. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

Later, when my mood had passed, I gave her a playful nudge.

“Why did you do that?” she exclaimed in alarm. “Why are you shoving me?”

I burst into laughter at her response. At first she looked puzzled and a little irritated, but then she smiled. “I like you,” she said, in a soft voice, as if it were a secret. “It’s too bad we can’t be friends.”

Yes, she was a snob. Maybe *I* was a kind of a snob myself. I knew I needed someone like Claire, but I wished it was someone else, not her. Someone more on my level. Then again, a girl who was more on my level wouldn’t have as much to teach me. In any case, I could see I was acquiring a kind of pantheon: a collection of girls I could contemplate and eventually understand. Certainly Claire belonged there, alongside Reddie Barnes and the Madonna, but just because she belonged there didn’t mean I wanted her there.

And yet, all in all, things were going pretty well. I’d gotten comfortable being a young girl. It wasn’t a role any more — at least most of the time. Lois and Ken became Mom and Dad. Meredith became my mother’s friend. Claire was my peer, whether she’d admit such a thing or not. I still felt a bit strange and half-naked when I’d wear a dress, but that feeling grew smaller as the days went by.

Then, one Sunday afternoon, about a month after my becoming Celine, a weird wrinkle appeared. Lois gave me a ride to Alfie’s house. We chatted about one thing and another. After I got out of the car and was standing in Alfie’s driveway, Lois lowered her window and said, “I nearly forgot to tell you: Meredith moved in with the Ponzi guy.” Then she drove off, leaving me with my jaw hanging open, blinking and shaking my head.

 

---

 

Two weeks went by without event. Meredith and Lois continued their giddy friendship. Occasionally Meredith would stop by and hang out with Lois. By now, my presence hardly registered with Meredith. She seemed to have forgotten that I was ever Leo. Now I’d been demoted to being her best friend’s daughter — which was fine with me.

She and Lois spent an inordinate amount of time talking about sex. Meredith was constantly looking for “ways to spice things up,” which, in the context of her already overheated sex life, seemed about as needful as spraying gasoline on a burning house. Twice, when the weather was so stormy that I couldn’t leave the house, the two of them talked so loud and so explicitly, that I had to put my fingers in my ears and go la la la la la. In the end, I put on some headphones and listened to music, loud, until I heard Meredith leave. There was no room in the house where I could escape from their talk. I would have hidden in the attic, but it was far too hot up there.

In the end though, it was Meredith’s constant pushing of the sexual envelope that finally drove a wedge between her and Lois.

One Tuesday morning, Ken was driving me to Big D’s to pick up breakfast. While we were alone, I had to ask him.

“Dad, did something happen between Meredith and Mom?”

He gave me a cagey look. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Meredith hasn’t been over in a couple of days, and I haven’t heard them on the phone together.”

Ken sighed. “I”ll tell you, but you have to keep it to yourself. Do NOT mention it to your mother.”

I agreed.

“Meredith asked your mother if she was up for a threesome with the Ponzi guy.”

”What!?”

He glanced at me before continuing, “Or a foursome.”

“Wow!”

“It was too much for Lois. We’re not made that way.”

I fell silent, considering what he’d said. There was nothing I could say.

Ken took a deep breath. “She said she wanted to surprise the guy. Lois, of course, gave her a frosty ‘no’ and asked her to leave the house. They haven’t spoken since.”

My eyes widened. It was too bad. Meredith needed someone to ground her, someone to help her, and Lois was the only person who could fill that role.

At the same time, Lois needed a friend, and this rift left Lois out in the cold.

I felt the heat of the pancakes penetrating the bag on my lap, warming my legs. I blinked and asked, “Were you flattered that she asked?”

Ken gave a bark of a laugh. “Flattered? Hardly. We’re the only people she knows. Who else was she going to ask?”

 

---

 

Another week passed. It was Sunday morning. Ken was working. Lois and I were in our kitchen, trying to decide what to do with our day.

The phone rang. It was Meredith: contrite, apologetic, calm for the first time. She and Lois spoke for a few minutes, tentatively at first, then after some mutual efforts at mending their friendship, Meredith got to the point of her call: she invited the two of us, Lois and me, to the Ponzi guy’s house at two that afternoon. She gave us the code to open the gate.

“That’s odd,” I observed after Lois hung up. “I thought you couldn’t get in that house without a background check.”

Lois shrugged and said, “Now the question is: how do we get there?”

Our neighbor, Mr. Waters, was happy to give us a ride. “I’m never on that side of the hill,” he confessed. “It will be a little adventure for me. I can drive around and look at the houses.”

He was right: an adventure it was! The houses in the Ponzi guy’s neighborhood were enormous — or at least strikingly beautiful. All the houses were conspicuously well cared for, with beautifully manicured lawns and topiary bushes. Occasionally we’d see fountains, sculptures, and enormous, curved driveways. Ponzi’s house was a contrast: it looked more like a bunker — albeit an expensive one, hidden behind a high wall. The only entry was through the driveway gate.

Mr. Waters dropped us off, then drove slowly away. He was going to do some more sightseeing before returning home.

Lois punched in the code, and the heavy, wide gate slowly swung open, almost without a sound. The two of us followed the drive as it curved and descended. The house was very angular, with hard-lines, clearly inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs. As we rounded the corner of the house, Lois gasped. Suddenly the landscaping and the walls opened to a magnificent view of the lake.

“Can you imagine living here?” she whispered, nearly breathless.

The driveway continued to dip lower, ending on a level below the back yard. The garage was open, and at first the only vehicle visible was Meredith’s van, with its logo (“Meredith’s Maid Service”) displayed happily on the side. As the van came more completely into view, I noticed how low the carriage sank. It was inches from the ground.

“Oh, no!” I groaned. Clearly, Meredith was going to try to pull the job herself, and just as clearly, she’d already screwed it up by overloading the van.

“What?” Lois asked, stopping in her tracks and looking to me.

I took another two steps before stopping myself, and saw, behind Meredith’s van, a car that I knew very well. “Crap!” I softly exclaimed. “That’s Leo’s car! This is going to be bad.”

“Okay,” Lois said. “Let’s try to project positive energy. Meredith clearly has something in mind. Let’s give her a chance and see if something good can come of this.”

“Nothing good can come of this,” I told her, and pointed to the van. “Meredith is trying to do the heist. The van is already loaded, over its capacity.”

Lois’s body stiffened and her face went white. She froze on the spot, one arm slightly raised in a gesture of helplessness.

“Should we leave?” she whispered.

“Let’s go in and see if we can stop her,” I suggested. Lois nodded. I took a deep breath, and saw her do the same. She gripped my hand, hard, and we walked into the house together.

We entered the garage and found Meredith standing there smiling, along with Leo and Theresa. Theresa also greeted us with a smile, but Leo scowled like a thundercloud. “What is that brat doing here?” he demanded.

“You don’t know?” I asked.

Angrily, Leo growled, “Of course I don’t!”

So I told him: “Meredith is trying to rip off the Ponzi guy.”

Meredith’s jaw dropped in surprise. “How did you know?” she exclaimed.

Leo, shocked and offended, shot a look at Meredith, then at me. He turned to Theresa and said, “We’re out of here.” He grabbed her roughly by the arm and started stomping toward the exit. When he passed close to me, he pushed his face next to mine and said, “You’re still screwing up people’s lives! Are you ever going to stop?” Then he went to his car, still dragging Theresa behind him. She shrugged apologetically as she went, smiling and waving goodbye.

Once they had driven out of sight, I said, “Meredith, this is a terrible idea. You have to put the money back. All of it.”

Meredith struggled to find her words. “How did you even know?” she asked again.

In answer, I gestured at the van. “Look how low that thing is hanging! It’s way over capacity! You took ALL the money, didn’t you?”

“No,” she said, blushing. “Not all.”

“You took as much as you could fit.”

She nodded mutely.

“You can’t drive that thing! It’ll break down! You could snap an axle. The tires could give way. It’s going to be harder to drive, harder to steer. You could even tip over! And, besides all that, the police will stop you for driving over capacity.”

“That isn’t a real thing,’ Meredith scoffed.

“Yes it is a real thing. It carries a fine. Overloaded vehicles damage the roads. That’s why the cops watch for it.”

“Hmmph,” Meredith said. She put her hands on her hips in a petulant gesture. After a short inner struggle, she said, “All right. Will you guys help me put some of the money back?”

“No!” Lois shouted. “Neither of us are touching any of that! We don’t want to be involved! We don’t want our fingerprints on anything here!”

“Okay,” Meredith said in a small voice.

“Look,” I said. “The only thing you can do is put all of the money back before the Ponzi guy finds out. Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s in New York for the weekend,” she replied sullenly. “He won’t be back until lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Then you have enough time to undo it,” I said.

Meredith stared at the ground, sullen. Lois, shaken, said, “Meredith, I don’t understand how you could ever imagine I’d want a part in this.”

“We talked,” Meredith replied, weakly. “You were so happy about the idea.” Then she raised her head and looked at me. “But look: I can still do this, can’t I? If you two leave, and I dump enough money to make the van lighter, I can go, and everything will be fine. It will be your perfect crime!”

“No, no, no,” I told her. “You’ve already screwed this up, badly. You never should have invited Leo, Theresa, Lois, and me. You’ve involved all of us.”

“You don’t have to tell,” she whined, white faced.

“We don’t need to tell! Look, I counted four security cameras on the walk down here. Who knows how many are inside the house? If the police — or the Ponzi guy — look at the footage, what will they see? You. Us. Leo and Theresa. Who do you think they’ll come after?”

Lois groaned, as if in physical pain.

Meredith, visibly upset, told us, “I can fix the cameras. I’ll delete the footage and shut them off.”

“Do you know where the control room is?”

“I guess so,” she said. “There are only two rooms we aren’t allowed in. I just have to get his keys.”

“Don’t forget to check whether the feeds go to an offsite repository,” I warned her. She nodded, her face bloodless and frightened.

“Can you wait for me to get back?” she asked plaintively. I looked to Lois, who nodded.

After Meredith disappeared into the house, Lois whispered, “What a shit show!”

“We’ll get out of here as soon as she comes back,” I promised.

After what seemed an eternity, we heard Meredith shouting for help. I picked up a cloth (to avoid leaving prints) and opened the door. Meredith was stumbling down the hallway, helping, half-carrying another woman. They were both crying, full of fear.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Ponzi’s assistant,” Meredith explained. “She was tied up in one of the rooms.” In fact, raw red marks were visible on her wrists and ankles. She must have been tied tightly, and struggled against her restraints.

“No,” the woman contradicted. “Not her. Schiaciata. Emris Schiaciata.”

Meredith’s face convulsed in horror. She screamed, let go of the assistant’s arm, and convulsively her body jerked. She jumped away from the woman, not wanting to touch her. Without Meredith’s support, the poor assistant tumbled to the ground, crying helplessly. She obviously hurt her knee in the fall.

“Meredith! What is she saying?”

Meredith was trembling so violently that she could hardly stand. “It’s the Ponzi guy! The Ponzi guy! His name is Emris Schiaciata.”

I still couldn’t make sense it. “What? What about the Ponzi guy?”

“He said he’d change me back!” the women wailed from the ground. “I told him everything! He said he’d change me back!”

Then whole thing hit me like a ton of bricks. My eyes widened, my jaw dropped. Every hair on my body stood on end. Simon had worked his malevolent magic here. As Max, he’d switched with the assistant, then, as the assistant, he’d switched with the Ponzi guy.

The Ponzi guy — wherever he was — was now Simon, the Switcher.

This woman who lay crying on the garage floor was the *real* Ponzi guy, yet another victim of Simon’s switching.

My mind flashed through a dozen odd facts, all of them unconnected until now: the messed-up papers on Leo’s desk, the strange visit from Simon when he held my arm, Meredith’s description of the Ponzi guy’s obsession with touching her, the assistant “leaving” before the Ponzi guy took up with Meredith...

As the dots connected for me, I looked up to see Meredith’s face abruptly distort into a mask of terror. She was trembling so violently, she could barely stand. Her right arm lifted; she gestured mutely at something behind me before she fainted dead away. Her body went limp, and she hit the concrete floor with a sickening slap, like a marionette whose strings were abruptly cut.

When I turned to see what had frightened Meredith so badly, I saw a man I’d never seen before, yet I immediately knew who he was: Physically, he was the Ponzi guy. Internally, he was Simon, the Switcher.

Simon had chosen his victim well: The Ponzi guy was very fit and very good looking. He was of medium height and build, with a full head of wavy, dark-brown hair. He was dressed well and expensively. He carried a gun in his right hand, but held it loose, not pointing at anyone. The woman on the ground cried out when she saw him, and began whimpering, “Please! Change me back! You told me that you’d change me back! Please, I’m begging you! I’ve done everything you asked!”

Simon, with a look of disdain and irritation, raised his gun and shot her. Just like that, as casually as if he was swatting a fly. I recoiled in horror and disgust as blood spurted from the woman’s forehead. Lois clutched my arm, and we both looked away.

“I hate whinging,” Simon said, as if in explanation. Then he smiled and asked, “So how is everyone doing today?”

The offhand murder and the callous quip afterward triggered a rage in me that I’ve never experienced before or since. I felt as though I was on fire, angry, offended to the core. I felt full of power and strength, as if I’d been transformed into the Incredible Hulk. I’m sure the fire was also fed by my weeks of dealing with my new life, the life of Celine, which Simon had thrown me into.

I shook off Lois’s hand. I balled up my fists and walked slowly toward Simon, shouting, “You asshole! You unmitigated asshole! What is wrong with you, you psychopath?”

At the word psychopath, Simon’s head jerked back, and his lips tightened. Lois cried out my name and said, “Stop, Celine, stop! He’s got a gun!”

At that point, I stopped walking. I was three feet from the man. The recklessness and foolishness of what I was doing hit me. Yes, Simon had a gun, and my anger didn’t make me bulletproof. He looked down at his weapon, then passed it from his right hand to his left.

Now, with his right hand free, he swiftly raised his arm and gave me a slap, right in the face. I’ve never been hit so hard. It made my legs buckle. I stumbled a few steps, but I didn’t fall. I put my hand to my face, wondering whether he’d dislocated my jaw.

“Ohhh!” Simon sighed with pleasure. “You have no idea how deeply satisfying that is to me. So often — so often — I’ve met someone who — just like you — deserved to be richly and roundly slapped in the face. And I would gladly have been the one to slap them — but I’ve restrained myself.” He smiled at me.

“You understand, Celine, that normally if I slapped someone, I’d switch with them right away, and then I’d experience the pain I’d given them! It’s an absurd injustice, reserved only for me! What a trial my life can be!

“But you — I’ve already switched with you, and so I’m free to give you all the slaps you’ve earned.” He thought for a moment. “And, why not? The slaps I couldn’t give to others. Or kicks and punches. There’s no need for restraint, is there?”

With that preamble, he gave me a back-handed slap that sent me flying. I landed at Lois’ feet.

“Stop it!” Lois shouted. “Stop hurting my child!”

Simon gave her an amused, mocking smile, and mouthed the words my child. “Aren’t you forgetting, Lois dear, that I was your child, too? Don’t you care about me?”

“No, I don’t!” Lois said. “You’ve taken my daughter from me twice. I’m not going to let you do it again.” She stepped over me, and placed herself between me and Simon.

Frowning, Simon mouthed the word twice? made a show using the barrel of his gun to count on his fingers. He mimed confusion, then gave it up with a shrug.

“Don’t worry, mummy. I’m not going to hurt your little, middle-aged girl. I need her conscious, to do one little thing for me before I can leave. Celine, come here. I have a little gift for you. I’m not going to hurt you. Come. Come! The sooner you do this, the sooner I’ll leave you in peace. If you dawdle, I’ll kill you all. See, I’m being kind: I’m giving you a choice. Come here now, or the shooting starts.”

I got to my feet shakily, and — my face hurt and burning from his slaps — I approached him cautiously, full of mistrust. He reached in his pocket and pulled out four black cable ties.

“Now,” he said, “take these and tie up mummy — wrists and ankles. Do it quickly, and do it well. I’m going to be watching. And don’t say no; I can see the word written on your face. If you don’t tie her up as quickly as you can, I’ll put a bullet in her head. Mummy, face down on the floor, hands behind your back.”

Lois lay on the concrete. I bound her ankles with one tie. “Tighter,” Simon instructed. “Tighter.” He wanted to see the tie biting into her flesh — which brought to mind the wounds on Ponzi’s assistant. Then a second tie on her ankles, and two for her wrists.

He had me lie on the floor about six feet away from Lois. Clearly, he didn’t want to touch her and accidentally switch with her. Before he knelt to bind me, he said, “Any tomfoolery, and I shoot mummy first. Then I’ll put a bullet in your leg so you can live with what you’ve done.”

I didn’t resist, and soon I, like Lois, was painfully restrained.

Simon quickly checked Meredith, who still lay on the floor, unconscious.

Then — he kissed her!

When he rose to his feet, he said, “I’ll miss this house, and all the good things it brought me.”

With that, he got into Meredith’s van and very slowly drove it out of sight. He kept the transmission in its lowest gear. The engine struggled and whined. I expected it to break down before he reached the street, but it didn’t happen while I could see it. After it turned the corner, I couldn’t hear it any more. Aside from the sound of the trees rustling in the wind, there was silence.

Lois said, “We need to wake Meredith!” She turned on her side and wormed her way across the floor until she could nudge her friend with her head.

Meredith soon came to.

We called Ken. Ken called the Feds, who noisily and ineffectually showed up thirty minutes later. Ken, on the other hand, appeared on the scene in minutes. His shift was over; we caught him on his way home.

The Feds brought Meredith, Ken, Lois, and me back to their base, the place where this story began, and questioned us repeatedly. They made us stay the night, and in the morning they interrogated us all over again.

They also picked up Leo and Theresa, but kept us separate for obvious reasons.

At last, breakfast done, and interrogations over, they brought us all together in a conference room: Feds, friends, family, and others. One of the agents — someone I hadn't seen before — stood in the front of the room and said, “For the sake of our team, and as a courtesy to our guests, we’re going to lay out the sequence of events for everyone, as we understand them now. Please save any questions or corrections until I’ve finished.”

He consulted his tablet before beginning. Then, with a look of uncertainty, he pulled a large piece of paper from his pocket. I could see it was a diagram, consisting of boxes, arrows, and names. He cleared his throat, and jokingly commented, “You really need to make a diagram to keep it all straight, don’t you?”

He took another look at his tablet. “I, um,” he said, sounding uncertain. His looked up, and his eyes rested on me. He approached another agent, and gesturing at me, whispered, “Is she the one who...” but I couldn’t hear the rest. After the two had a brief discussion, the agent approached me, and said, “Would you mind — do you think you could — um, can you kind of summarize what happened here? Starting from your barbecue? Would that be alright?”

I shrugged and nodded, then stood up in front of everyone. This is what I said:

“One thing you need to know in order to understand what happened, is that I used to be a 42-year-old con man named Leo. I had an idea for a heist, a way to steal a sizable amount of money from a man named Emis Schiaciata. Emris was running a Ponzi scheme, and had a vast amount of cash in a safe in his home.

“Before the barbecue that your agent mentioned, Simon had taken over the identity of a thirteen-year-old girl, Celine Morsten, who had just moved to Lambeth with her parents.

“Through the internet, Simon discovered that I recently tried to defraud my wife’s employer. She lost her job, but I wasn’t charged with any crime, and this made him curious about me. But as yet, he knew nothing of my scheme to rob the Ponzi guy.

“However — he did know where I lived, and when you Feds were on his tail, he ran to my house. He — still in the guise of Celine — had a little time before you caught up with him, and in that time he overheard me try to tempt my three friends — my wife and the couple next door — to help me with my heist.

“My explanation didn’t get very far for two reasons: one, you were hot on Simon’s tail and he had to switch fast, and two, my plan was still just an idea: an idea full of holes.

“After Simon switched with each of the four of us, creating maximum confusion, he got away in the body of my friend Max. As Max, he jumped over a fence and hid out — maybe in Max’s house — until you Feds left. At the time, you didn’t know that Max was missing, so no one looked for him.

“Once everyone was gone, Simon returned to my house and had a good look around. He found my papers, including my notes on the heist, and soon he knew everything that I knew. He had plenty of time to look, to read, because the rest of us were here, being questioned and getting oriented to our new lives.

“A week later, when everyone expected him to be long gone and far away, Simon came to find me. He didn’t reveal his real purpose, but I now believe he wanted to know whether I was still planning on executing the heist — even though I was now the thirteen-year-old daughter of a policeman.

“When he saw I no longer had any interest, he went ahead with the heist himself.

“First, as Max, he switched with the assistant of the Ponzi guy, Emris Schiaciata.”

I paused for a moment. “I heard that you found Max’s body at the assistant’s house.”

“Yes,” one of the agents replied. “His throat had been cut. By the way, the woman you call ‘the assistant’ — her name was Connie Deffermil.”

“Okay, thank you. Now, in the guise of Connie, Simon got access to the house and switched with Schiaciata himself. He lied to Schiaciata, promising that he’d switch him back, restoring his own body, if he told him everything about the Ponzi scheme, the money, the safe combination, and all that.

“Of course, Simon’s promise was nothing but an impossible lie, but Emris had no way of knowing that. In any case, Emris had little choice.

“At the same time, my friend Meredith gave into temptation and decided to steal the money herself. Simon, in the guise of the Ponzi man, watched her, manipulated her, and in the end pretended to go away for a weekend. She used that opportunity to load her van with money.”

“Meredith found Connie tied in a locked room. Once we realized she was really Emris, everything became clear: above all the fact that Emris was now Simon.”

I stopped and looked around the room. “Is everyone following this?” A few of the listeners glanced at each other, not wanting to admit to being the only ones who felt confused.

“Don’t worry,” the first agent assured me. “We’re recording this, and — uh — we’ll make a diagram to go along with it.”

“Okay,” I said. “In the end, Simon shot Connie in cold blood, tied us up, and drove off in the van full of money.”

I paused again. “That’s all I know. Now, can somebody tell me how Simon got away? I expected that van to break down before it left the driveway.”

The same agent answered. “Simon had a flatbed tow truck. He loaded Meredith’s van onto the flatbed, covered it with a tarp, and hauled it away. We managed to work that out from security cameras on the street. We haven’t found the flatbed or the van yet.”

I nodded.

I saw Ken shift in his seat. He bristled.

“So he got away.” Ken said. It wasn’t a question. “Simon got away again.”

 

---

 

I had hoped to say goodbye to Leo and Theresa. It would have been nice to leave on good terms, but clearly that wasn’t meant to be.

Leo and Theresa decided they wanted a clean slate and a clean start, somewhere far from Lambeth, as husband and wife. The Feds wouldn’t fabricate new accounting credentials for Leo, but they did find him a job keeping the books for a large construction company. I sincerely hoped that the new life improved Leo’s mood and demeanor.

Meredith also asked for a fresh start, but she didn’t get one. She had to make a plea deal with the Feds, and was held as a material witness in the case against Schiaciata’s investment company.

Before we left the facility, one of the agents led us to a small windowless room, where he asked us to wait. “Someone wants to see you,” he explained with a smile. We sat there, impatient and curious, for five minutes. When the door opened, I jumped to my feet. It was the nurse I met when I first awoke here, when I first became Celine.

“Hello!” I exclaimed, and ran to wrap her in a hug. “It’s so nice to see you again!”

“Hello, yourself,” she replied. “I heard you were here, and wanted to see how you were getting along.”

“Aside from several crises, it’s just been a day at the beach,” Lois joked.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s been good. I think I got the best deal in my bunch.”

The nurse nodded. “I’m glad,” she said. “I had a good feeling about you!”

 

---

 

After that brief, friendly visit, we were once again bundled into the back of a blacked-out van and bounced around for an hour. They let us out, once again, in the Target parking lot.

After they drove off, Ken observed, “I’m pretty sure we just came from the industrial park we visited last time. It’s only fifteen minutes in that direction.”

“What now?” I asked.

“I, for one, am hoping for a whole lot of nothing,” Lois declared. “I’d like to find out what it’s like to not have adrenaline running through my veins. Do you think we can manage to be a boring, suburban family for at least a few months? It would be nice to know what that’s like. It would be a new and welcome experience for me.”

“Sure,” Ken said. “We can take a crack at that. Or we can sit down and let it happen. Whatever it takes.”

“Um, yes, absolutely,” I agreed. “A boring life sounds fine, for now. But really what I meant was: what are we doing right now, at this moment? Are we going home? Or are we going to hit the Cheesecake Factory?”

“That is our pattern,” Ken agreed, “And I could definitely eat something.”

“Yeah,” Lois agreed. “I’m sure that food would help knit up the raveled sleeve of care.”

“Shakespeare?” I asked.

“You know it, hon,” she replied, and stepping between me and Ken, linked arms with both of us. “And now, let’s go demolish some big, bad burgers!”

“I’m in,” Ken grinned.

“I see cheesecake in our future,” I predicted.

“And how about a long journey?” Lois asked. “Do you see that in our future as well?”

I looked up at her, puzzled, and she explained, “Before school starts, it would be nice if you could visit your grandparents, wouldn’t it?”

My face lit up, and we stopped so we could wrap ourselves in a true family hug.

 

Merope, Maybe : 1 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"I am not contained between my hat and boots."
— Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

---

 

If you want to see Upper Harmish at its best, you need to visit mid-September, when the leaves are turning. Many people do: it's the one and only time of year when our hotels, motels, and B&Bs are chock full. Many visitors choose to drive through the western hills, where you're surrounded by bright reds, yellows, and oranges. Some subject their cars to the arduous climb up Braeke's Height, where they take in the brilliant sea of nearly-psychedelic hues. There are outstanding panoramas in every direction.

A healthy portion of our visitors books a breakfast, lunch, or dinner cruise up the Harmish River. Once the cruise leaves the town behind, the river opens up, and its wide expanse is flanked by soft hills packed with maples, oaks, dogwoods and other varieties noted for their powerful autumn colors.

Some tourists — some, but a much smaller number — do what I do, which is to simply walk along the river. It's totally free, and I think it's the absolute best option. You can see the river, which is nice in itself, and you can see the buildings on the opposite band, standing behind the trees on that side. The river walkway is generously wide on both sides of the river, and so thick with trees, it's very nearly a long, thin slice of forest. You see the colors, but not only do you see them, you trample them underfoot! You walk on them, you wade through them, you make the swoosh swoosh swoosh sound as your feet and legs kick and sweep through dry leaves. In the distance you hear the muffled scrape of rakes pulling the scattered foliage into piles.

It's a complete autumn experience. There's a unique fragrance in the air that comes only this time of year... the smell of the leaves of deciduous trees as they dry and begin to decompose.

There's nothing like it.

I doubt anyone could put that scent in a candle!

So... that's what I went out to enjoy on that fateful day. As far as I knew at the time, it was nothing more than a lovely Friday in September. That's all I expected to see and hear and smell. The weatherman called it "the pick of the week" for temperature, for sun, for mildness. I could see it from my window: a simply beautiful, nearly perfect day.

And I had nothing to do.

The day in question was a Friday: the second Friday of the month, the second Friday of my retirement. I'd enjoyed a nice retirement party, two weeks ago, and after that, a dozen days of freedom, more or less.

I was already bored and disappointed.

Being retired wasn't at all what I expected; at least not so far. I know I hadn't given it much time, but I had — or *thought* I had — a pretty clear picture of how my life was going to be. When I first made plans to retire at sixty, I imagined that Cleo and I would travel, see the world, learn new things, visit new places, spend more time together. I counted it as quite an achievement: the fact that I'd saved up enough to quit working while I was still young enough to enjoy my life.

Unfortunately, Cleo wasn't on the same page. Not at all.

"What did you think would happen when I retired?" I asked her.

"I assumed that you'd find ways to spend your time," she replied. "You seemed to have it all planned out."

"I thought that I'd be spending that time with you," I protested.

"You expect me to quit my job!" she said, in a tone of accusation.

"Well, yes," I said. "It seemed like the obvious step."

"All these years you've been planning, you might have bothered to mention it."

"Oh," I said, in a small voice. It's true. I never mentioned the idea... I never thought to question the idea... it all seemed so obvious...

I'm forty-five years old," she pointed out. "I'm just beginning to come into my own, professionally. I'm not ready to stop."

"Okay," I acknowledged. I could feel myself losing ground.

"My life isn't a sidecar to yours, you know."

It was a embarrassing surprise: she was absolutely correct. I never asked her, or even myself, what she might want, how she pictured the life ahead. I had ideas and plans. Why shouldn't she?

That wasn't all. Even before that conversation, the difference in our ages began to matter. At some point she didn't see me as young any more. Or — if not young, well, I thought we both felt we were about the same age. The change seemed very abrupt to me: Suddenly, my hair was white. Suddenly, I had a pot belly. Suddenly, I had new aches and pains.

Worst of all, the older I seemed to get, the more I irritated Cleo.

"Could you please stop making all those grunts and groans?" she'd ask. "You sound like an old man!"

"Do I really?" I asked.

"Just listen to yourself next time you tie your shoes," she replied.

Cleo began to interrupt me a dozen times a day, saying, "Anson, please! You've told me that story a thousand times!"

Honestly, I don't think I repeated myself that much (if at all), but I had to take her word for it.

Okay... I could adjust to all that: I could make better habits. I wondered, though: could I get used to spending my days alone?

What an ass I'd been! Thinking she'd drop her career just because *I* stopped working!

Maybe she would have, if we'd made our plans together.

And I had to admit, Cleo had a great job: a psychologist in a group of psychologists. They shared a nice suite of offices downtown. It was quiet, professional, and managed to be elegant and comfortable at the same time. She enjoyed her work. She loved her co-workers. She often said, "It's the most intellectually stimulating environment I've ever experienced! And so supportive!"

Which was, of course, great for her.

Not as great for me.

I had no idea, of course, that while my life appeared to be slowly sinking into a disappointing muddle, it was about to take quite an incredibly dramatic turn: A jack-knife change of direction that would land me with a whole new set of problems and issues. An alteration so total, it would make my former life seem like a pile of plain mashed potatoes by comparison.

After dressing in soft, comfortable clothes, I sat down to put on my walking shoes. I managed to tie them without my usual series of old-man grunts and groans. Then I stood to look in the mirror as I plopped a new cotton bucket hat on my head. I smiled at myself. Turning sideways, I hefted my belly with both hands. "I look like an old duffer," I told myself, "but in a good way."

Cleo and I live in a solid three-bedroom house just north of downtown. From our place, it's a pleasant mile and a half to the river. I planned to head more or less directly there. Then I'd turn west on the riverway. After about 20 minutes, I'd cross the Spring Street Bridge, and return east on the other side. The views are different but wonderful on either side of the river.

That was my plan, anyway. As you'll see, things didn't work out quite the way I expected! Not at all.

But I'm jumping ahead — sorry!

On a side street close to the center of town I stopped for coffee and a bun. A new, hip coffeeshop featured a walk-up window open to the sidewalk, so I gave it a try. They were out of croissants, so I let myself get talked into trying a "roasted tea scone." It was a strange item, but I felt inclined to try something new. In a way, that scone set the tone for the rest of the day. Big, baked black tea leaves lay draped across a maple glaze. Honestly, it was the maple glaze that sold me, but as much as I enjoy maple sugar, the mapleness wasn't strong enough to overpower the bitterness of the tea leaves and the tiny, unnameable crunchy bits hidden inside. Each time I encountered one of the small, dry, friable cubes, I wanted to take it between my fingers, trot back to the window, and ask what on earth they were made of. But the moment my teeth came in contact with one of them, the weird, tiny cube would break into bits and disappear, like ashes in a strong wind. The coffee was passable — officially not bad, but the scone was a conundrum: I just didn't get it. I managed to eat the whole thing, though. It wasn't horrible. It simply tasted as strange as all get-out.

The barista called to me from inside the sidewalk window, asking whether I liked the scone.

"I think it's more of a concept piece than a breakfast item," I replied.

He shrugged, smiled, and told me he'd pass my comment on to the baker.

"It's thought-provoking," I added.

"Um, okay," he replied, in a tone of faux uncertainty, as though he didn't understand why I was still talking.

I moved on, but the scone stayed with me.

The amalgamated taste of coffee, tea leaves, and maple glaze remained with me vividly, all the way to the river. It was certainly a combination that made you think. It made me think what a bizarre combination it was. I kept finding myself licking my lips, puzzled by the scone's persistence.

When at last I reached the river, for some foolish reason I headed east rather than west, the opposite of what I'd planned. Maybe there were a lot of tourists heading west? I don't know. I don't remember. Maybe it was an after-effect of the scone. I twisted my mouth around and made some smacking noises with my tongue. It didn't help. I couldn't rid of the bitter/maple amalgamation. In any case, heading east wasn't really a conscious decision. I simply turned left instead of right, on a whim. A little thing, but as it turned out, it was absolutely the most momentous decision of my entire life.

Of course, I had no idea at the time. How could I? I drifted along the brick path, as I had so many times in the past, enjoying everything about the day. The air was sharp, clean, and fresh. The leaves were at their peak — vivid colors — half of them still clinging to the trees, the other half covering the ground. It was as picturesque and homey as I expected. The only thing missing to make it perfect was Cleo by my side. Cleo, with her hand in mine... Cleo, asking me Do you have to make that sound?

What sound? I'd reply, but she wouldn't answer.

Every minute or so a jogger would pass. People walking dogs of every size and variety. Young mothers pushing strollers.

I thought about giving Cleo a call, but didn't. It was difficult to catch her between patients. At best, I could leave a message, but I didn't feel like doing that, especially when I had nothing in particular to say.

For a moment I considered giving my son Herman a call, but he tended to be even busier at work than Cleo, and more fussy and irritated at being interrupted. I never thought that processing bank loans could be such an intense and stressful occupation.

I hope I don't sound like I'm complaining. I love my life. I love my family. I was having a wonderful day, relaxing, enjoying the scene, happy to not be at the office.

After twenty minutes of slow, easy shuffling, I came to a point in the path known locally as "the Pinch." Come to think on it, the reason I originally meant to head west instead of east was exactly to avoid this spot. It's famous for its view of Monument Hill, across the river. In fact, the Pinch features a park bench, placed at the exact spot where the view is optimal.

Unfortunately, it's one of the worst places to stick a bench.

You see, the point is called the Pinch precisely because the path curves dramatically out to follow a bend in the river. At that bend is a centenary chestnut tree. Yes, it's lovely. The massive, impressive tree constrains the path on the river side, and the obnoxious corner of a twenty-foot-high brick wall pokes in from the other side. The bench is offset slightly from the wall's intrusion, but it still impinges on what would otherwise be a wide, pleasant walkway. Not that the Pinch is absurdly small; it isn't. There's enough room for two or three people to pass, depending on their size. Even so, there's nearly always a little traffic jam because someone's stopped in the middle of the path to admire the view. Inevitably they stand exactly at the choke point, between the tree and the bench.

Today, that someone was me. When I realized that *I* was the thoughtless lout standing in the way, I took a few quick steps to the side and backed away from the path. This put me square in the ivy that borders the path, but I didn't care. I smiled and let a young mother and her double-sized twin stroller pass.

Like everyone else who momentarily blocked foot traffic, I'd stopped to admire the view. And what a view! The panorama was at its best today: the sky itself was decorated with picture-perfect cotton-ball clouds against a blue background you'd find in a Renaissance landscape. A Mediterranean blue. That celestial blue, the weightless clouds, the insanely colored autumn leaves, perfectly framed the obelisk on Monument Hill.

It struck me that the thing to do was to snap a photo and send it to Cleo, so she'd know I was thinking about her; so she could share my experience. No message, no reply required. Simply an expression of joy and beauty.

While contemplating my shot, I had to step into the ivy a second time to let another young, pretty mother with a stroller pass. Once she turned the bend and disappeared from sight, I snapped a few pictures of the city.

I'll admit, I'm no great shakes at photography, but these were poor even by my standards. It seemed that what I liked best in what I saw — the sky, the clouds, the leaves, the monument — was the hardest thing to catch. No matter how I turned or zoomed or angled my phone, all I could see was the leaves underfoot and the river as a thick dark underline.

Frustrated, I decided to climb onto the bench in hopes of finding a better composition. Clearly, if I were just a tiny bit higher, I could leave out both path and river and capture the image that caught my eye.

Getting up there, though, was harder than I imagined. Yes, I'm sixty. I'm not old but I'm overweight, and a bit out of shape. Even so, taking that short step up and onto the bench shouldn't be such a huge effort! And yet, I came upon one of the odd surprises that come with aging. I set my left foot on the bench, and discovered to my chagrin that my leg didn't have the power to push me up to a standing position. I tried my other leg. No go on that side as well. I had to resort to a less dignified method: I leaned forward, planted my hands on the back of the bench, and tugged with both arms as I pushed with my leg. That effort, accompanied by a rather ungraceful grunt and an unexpectedly cracking fart, left me standing upright on the bench facing the wrong way.

A third mother with a stroller waited patiently while I struggled. It wasn't as though I took up any of the path; she was only being cautious. If I'd fallen backward, I could have flattened the stroller, with her baby inside — or at least, bowled into the little family like a set of ninepins. It would have been inconvenient and embarrassing. As soon as I was up and out of her way, she smiled politely and pushed quickly on ahead. I felt fairly confident that she hadn't heard me break wind, not that it mattered.

It was all a little undignified, but here I was.

With small, careful steps, I turned myself around to face the view. I wobbled for a moment, then stood up straight and tall.

I must have made a ridiculous spectacle: a pot-bellied retired office worker, perched on the uneven beams of a park bench. I never thought I had any issues with balance, but despite that belief, I found myself wobbling. My gyrations were only slight at first, but soon I was shaking like a go-go dancer. I feared I might fall. To steady myself, I bent my knees and grabbed hold of the back of the bench. After a few deep breaths, I felt pretty steady, so I straightened up. To keep my balance, I extended my arms like a capital T. Good. I took another deep breath, let it go, and lifted my phone in front of my face. Darn! I'd waited too long to snap the picture; in the meantime my screen lock engaged, and my screen had gone dark.

I pushed the button to light the screen. I swept my fingers, inserted my code. The camera was ready to go. I lifted it in front of my face. Confoundingly, the double image — the actual monument in the distance and the tiny obelisk on my phone — confused my eye. Despite my best efforts and my firmest resolve, I wobbled again. I heaved a deep, fearful breath. I wanted to close my eyes for a moment, but knew it would only make things worse. Just then, a voice, a loud, unkind voice, cut in—

"Hey, Humpty Dumpty! Will you be careful up there?" It was a woman, shouting in a rude, impatient tone. Humpty Dumpty? Was I really that round? Even if I was, it was unkind to say so. Once again, I stretched out my arms in a T for stability, and in a moment my wobbling fell to a minimum. I turned my head to look down at her, much in the way a young gymnast on the balance beam gazes down at her coach.

In spite of myself, I was fascinated by what I saw. This woman was dressed for success, dressed to impress. Her pumps were a conservative dark blue, and had long, narrow heels. She wore a pale peach camisole under a light gray jacket with a matching gray skirt that ended just above her knee. Her hair was cut in a short, angled bob.

She stood, waiting, arms crossed, foot tapping — an attractive thirty-something brunette. She frowned, impatiently judging my efforts. She would have been more attractive if she dropped her disrespectful, antisocial attitude. Her scowl full of disdain, she commanded, "Get down from there, before you hurt yourself or someone else!"

"Why don't you mind your own business?" I asked, in all sincerity. "Just keep on walking, and we'll both be much happier." My temper began to rise. I could feel myself growing hot with indignation.

She barked, "You're shaky and unsteady — why are you even up there? I'm afraid you're going to fall, and if you fall, you'll going to fall on me."

"You're being ridiculous!" I shouted, red-faced, offended, and angry. "You're exaggerating, and you're insulting! Move along! Move along, now, quickly!" I waved my arms to give her a visual aid. Frowning even more deeply, she decided to change tack. She took a breath, calmed herself, and responded in a quieter tone, "I can't walk quickly in these heels over brick. I need to be careful, or my foot will get caught. If you promise not to move a single muscle, I'll scoot by, as fast as I can manage, and then I'll be on my way." I nodded, waving my arms dismissively. She let out a final, irritated tsk! and click-clacked past me on her hard, judgmental heels. I couldn't help but glance down as she passed. I've always had a weakness for a well-formed derriere, and her smooth gray skirt offered a moving outline of what lay beneath.

As fate would have it, my exertions, my arm-waving, but above all my indiscreet gawping at the rhythmic motion of her backside, increased the precariousness of my perch. Yes, it was rude of me. Even so, what happened in the next few moments was not my fault at all. It's something that could happen to anyone, anywhere: my right ankle buckled beneath me.

It's an injury that can easily occur even on smooth, solid ground: where sometimes, somehow — and no one knows why — one foot decides of its own accord, and for no good reason, to twist violently inward, throwing all your weight on the side of your foot. It's very painful. As I said, no one knows what provokes it, but something provoked it now.

That is why I fell. To my credit, I did shout, "Watch out! Look out below!"

I might as well have shouted "Timber!" or "Land ho!" for all the good my warning gave.

The woman let out an astonished cry, saw the impending danger, and made a little jump. Under normal circumstances, if she were an ordinary woman, her slight skip would have carried her completely out of danger. What I mean to say is, I didn't fall on her. I didn't knock her or bump her or grab hold of her as I fell. I barely touched her. Unfortunately, she was NOT an ordinary woman. That slightest hint of contact — the very air at the edge of my fingertips, strafing across her aura, so to speak — the lightest, merest sweep, not-quite down her back. That's all it took.

Then, confusingly, I fell down twice. I hit the ground as Anson — a heavy sixty-year-old landed like a sack of stone potatoes on the hard brick path, with my body twisted awkwardly. I scraped my elbow, my knee, my wrist, and the side of my face. The right side of my pelvis took a great wallop. As my body fell, I watched my phone sail through the air, as if in slow motion. Gravity guided it down and bounced it off a brick, until it finally came to rest in the ivy that bordered the path.

Then came the strange part, and my first clue to what happened: I fell a *second* time, this time backwards. First came the sensation of being struck in the gut. Then my knees buckled, and my soft and cushioned butt landed on the stomach of an older man who conveniently broke and absorbed the full impact of my fall.

In a stupor, I took in the impossible scene: I was sitting on the ample stomach of a man who lay on the ground, out of breath and in pain. That man was me: Anson Charpont, retiree.

I gazed down at the new me: the me who sat on the belly of the old me. I raised my hands and saw they were young, unwrinkled hands, small hands with delicate fingers, fingers with painted nails — the color called Ocean Blue, one of Cleo's favorites.

A breeze carried up the path. The air flowed swiftly along my naked legs, ending beneath my skirt.

I'm slow, but I can add one and one and one and one. Clearly, I was now the woman, and the woman I'd argued with, was now me.

"Damn it!" the new Anson shouted. "Get off me, you idiot!" He followed his demand with a string of expletives and obscenities, ending with a rude and inappropriate shove to my tailbone. I gingerly rose to my feet, then offered my hand to my old self, the old man.

"Don't touch me, you imbecile!" he groused. "Haven't you done enough?"

I watched him struggle to sit up, unsure what I should or could do to help. He rolled over awkwardly, clutched the park bench, and used it pull himself into a kneeling posture. There he paused to catch his breath. He turned his head and regarded me with a stare of cold hatred. "After all the trouble I went to..." he muttered. Another deep breath, then he leaned heavily on the bench and hauled himself to his feet. He nearly fell when he put his weight on the bad ankle. I grabbed him out of instinct. This time he didn't resist.

While my hands were on his arm, he turned to look me in the face. His face — my old face — had a large, ugly scrape on the right cheekbone. It was painful to see. His breathing was shallow — is that how mine had always been? After some experimental shuffling and shifting, he suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, gave me a shove and snatched my bag from me. I mean, he took the woman's bag, her purse. He meant to knock me down, but his aim was off. I didn't fall. I stumbled back a step or two; that was all. He opened the woman's bag, and began fishing things out and dropping them into his various pockets. I saw him take a gray metal cylinder, about three inches long and maybe an inch or so in diameter. He dropped it into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled out three more similar cylinders and shoved them into his other pockets. They bulged in an unattractive way. Then, after one last careful look inside, he said to me, "Here. Have yourself a party with the rest of this crap." He held the bag out to me, offering it, until — the moment I reached for it — he dropped it on the ground.

"Now get lost," he growled, "Don't follow me." And in a voice loaded with sarcasm added, "Enjoy your new life."

With that, he limped off, as quickly as he could manage.

One of the less pleasant aspects of aging is encountering yourself in photos. I never got used to the way my jaw expanded and the skin of my neck and arms sagged — to say nothing of how large and ungainly I'd become. It was painful enough, as I said, to see those changes memorialized in pictures, but now that I could see myself on the hoof (so to speak) — see myself as others saw me, limping away — was distressing in the extreme. I turned my eyes from my old self, and took a gander at my new self, to see where I'd landed, in terms of physical body. I looked pretty good, from my vantage point: I was young, fairly fit, a woman with a good figure, legs like Betty Grable (if I dare make the comparison!), and what appeared to be a fine pair of full, firm breasts. Not Miss America, or even a runner-up, but not bad.

Anson, my old body, was already at a surprising distance, and after a quick turn off the path, he disappeared from view.

Finally alone, I asked myself What do I do now?

I sat on the bench — that fateful bench — to take stock of my situation.

Clearly, I'd just become a victim of the Switcher. Although these events are far from common, enough people have encountered the Switcher that the topic has grown from an urban myth to a concrete reality. Some of his victims were celebrities, politicians, and other well-known and influential people. At long last several governments (including our own) set up national toll-free numbers and broadcast public-service announcements to explain what was known about the Switcher. They also instructed the public with a set of rules called What To Do When You're Switched.

Consequently, I knew very well what had happened to me. I also knew what I was *supposed* to do: the first step was to contact the authorities. I couldn't remember the toll-free number, but it would be a quick look-up on my phone. Speaking of which, I went and fished my phone out of the ivy, where I'd seen it fall. It hadn't suffered from the impact. The screen hadn't cracked.

Actually, the first step from the Public Service Announcements was a negative: If you're switched, you aren't supposed to call family or friends. The reason? It only causes problems, confusion, unnecessary distress, and — sometimes — legal issues. I didn't want any of that. "The competent authority" would take care of notifications. I understood that "competent" in that sentence didn't mean they were good at what they did; it only meant that it was their job. Still, I was quite willing to let the government unwind this one; I felt pretty sure from what I'd seen on TV that they'd unite me with my old family at the right time, under the right circumstances.

Okay: so I was supposed to call "the competent authority" to tell them I was switched. They, in turn, would either come to pick me up or tell me where to go for processing.

Fine. I'd do all that. But first, I wanted to understand as much as I could, before taking any steps. I wanted to have some kind of control over my new future. I wasn't going to be a passenger into my new life; I was determined to do at least some of the steering. I needed a plan, and to have a plan I needed to know my options.

My first question was Who am I now? I jiggled my bag — the woman's bag. All the clues to my identity were in there — unless the bag contained an apartment key, a car key, a business card, or really anything that led to more clues in another location...

To my disappointment, I didn't find much in the bag: A small pack of tissues, a lipstick, a tampon, a sanitary pad, an expensive-looking pen, a red wallet, and two envelopes. The wallet had a healthy amount of money in it: mostly twenties. A quick count told me it was just over $400. There were credit cards and a drivers license — all in the name Merope Goddard. "Oh my God," I groaned. "I'm stuck with a weird-ass name."

Then again, maybe I wasn't stuck with that name. I was pretty sure the government could give me a new name, if I wanted one. After all, I wasn't likely to pick up this woman's life where she left off.

The address on the drivers license was Omaha, Nebraska. That's way over in the middle of the country. Not close at all. I've never been.

There weren't any photos in the wallet, or store receipts, or scribbled notes. Nothing to fill out the picture of who she was.

I thought about my interactions with "Merope" — and realized that I'd never met the actual woman, Merope. If that was even her name. No, the real Merope was off somewhere in someone else's body. The person I met was the Switcher, in Merope's body.

As I said, the bag contained two envelopes. The thicker one was full of money: hundred dollar bills. It was a stack about a half-inch high.

The smaller of the two envelopes contained three more drivers licenses, each with a different photo of the new me, each with a different hair color and style, each from a different state, each with a credit card in the same name.

"What kind of mess am I in?" I asked myself. It was alarming. Was Merope a crook? A scam artist? Or was this collection of money and fake IDs the work of the Switcher, alone?

I was startled, and worried, sure, but I didn't get overwhelmed with fear. I knew from the public service announcements that there were processing centers set up exactly for this kind of mess. I knew I could depend on them to sort it out for me. I dropped everything back into the bag and picked up my old phone. (This Merope woman didn't have a phone, by the way. Odd, right? I didn't see the Switcher take it from me... so did Merope have a phone in the first place?)

My first intention was to look up the number of the Switcher processing center. Every good citizen by now knew the procedure by heart. It was only two steps, after all: Don't call friends or family. *Do* call the processing center. They instruct you where to go or where to wait for pick up. Before I made that call, however, I wanted some more information. I wanted answers. But who could help me? Who could I call? I scrolled through my contacts, without any real idea of what I was looking for. A friend? A lawyer? Family? I couldn't call Cleo or Herman. At least, I wasn't supposed to call them. Anson — my old self — was retired, so I had no office to call, no job to notify. I didn't think any of my ex-colleagues would be much help anyway... As for my friends, I loved them, but didn't see a point in dragging them into my mess. Even if I could convince them that I was Anson, what did I expect them to do? Aside from sympathize, I mean. With a heavy sigh I began to see there wasn't much point in breaking the rules. Whoever I called — if they even believed me — would probably freak out, and both of us would be in trouble.

In trouble for no good reason.

In trouble for no good reason... As that phrase echoed in my brain, my eye fell on a name: Rowan Brissard. Now, *he* was someone who didn't mind getting in trouble for no good reason. Would he help me? Probably. Should he help me? Probably not. Could he help me? I'd say he was a strong maybe.

Once upon a time, Rowan was my son Herman's best friend. They parted ways after high school: Herman left the state for an east-coast college; Rowan stayed in town and became — of all things — a policeman.

Back when the boys — well, technically, they're in their twenties, so they aren't boys any more — but back when they were teenagers, Rowan cost Cleo and me many sleepless nights. Neither of us could fall asleep until we heard Herman arrive home. As soon as we'd hear the front door close, we'd relax and drop off. Until then, we'd worry that Rowan had dragged Herman into some crazy stunt that left our son dead, hurt, or arrested.

The two of them managed to survive their teens and early twenties without a scratch and without a police record. It seemed a legitimate miracle.

On looking back, I think Cleo and I exaggerated the potential dangers. As a parent it's difficult not to. Or maybe we were all just lucky that nothing ever went too far in the wrong direction.

Rowan was never a *bad* kid. People used to say he was "a little wild," but now I think he simply couldn't see the point of following rules that didn't make sense. "Rules for the sake of rules," he'd say.

So, would he help me? I think he would. He shouldn't help me, but I felt confident that he wasn't afraid of... whoever it was that ran the Switcher Processing Centers.

Could he help me? I think so. Rowan's a cop. If anyone could make sense of the contents of Merope's bag, Rowan could.

I've never been one to act on impulse. I plan. I love to plan. Usually I deliberate as long as possible before making even the most conventional choices, but today was not an ordinary day.

And so, in the spirit of the day, on a totally crazy impulse, I did exactly what I was told NOT to do. I called Rowan.

"Rowan, this is Anson Charpont — Herman's father."

Rowan laughed. "Okay, lady, thanks for the laugh. You have a nice day, now."

"Wait, wait — don't hang up! I'm the victim of a Switcher incident! I want to talk to somebody before I turn myself into the processing center."

"Somebody, huh? Somebody/anybody? Nobody in particular? But hey, look — how do I know this isn't a practical joke? Or a scam? Nowadays, anybody can say Switcher and pretend to be somebody else."

"True, but why would a young woman pretend to be Anson Charpont? What's the upside?"

"Point taken. But even so— Convince me. Tell me something that nobody other than you, me, and Herman would know."

"Okay..." I said. "Give me a moment to think."

"You should have expected this question. Come on."

"Okay, I've got one. When Herman's grandmother died, I caught you and Herman in a back room at the funeral home. You were about to light up a joint."

"Hmmm," Rowan acknowledged. "You're halfway there. Now tell me what happened next?"

"I lit up with you two," I admitted, blushing as I said it.

Rowan grunted in acknowledgment. "I always thought that was a stone-cold move on your part, Mr C."

"Well, it was Cleo's mother, not mine," I confessed.

"Okay, one more," Rowan said. "Who did I lose my virginity with? You know this one."

"Do I?" I searched my memory. "I don't think I— oh, wait! It was your cousin Julie! Wasn't it? Now it's coming back to me. You told her that you had a brain tumor, right? And that poor girl believed you—"

"Okay, okay!" Rowan interrupted. "The name would have been enough. No need to root around into the details. We're not here to dredge up the past. You've convinced me." I heard him drumming his fingers. "Okay. What to do. Alright. Listen, my shift isn't over until five. Can you hang out for a couple of hours? Can you get over to my place? meet me there? You know where I live, right? There's a cafe and a bookstore across the street where you can kill some time..."

 

Merope, Maybe : 2 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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Glinda: Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?
Dorothy: Who me? I'm not a witch at all.
— The Wizard of Oz (1939 film)

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After I ended the call with Rowan, I took a second look at Merope's bag... what I hoped was a deeper, more careful look. It had occurred to me that Cleo's bags often featured hidden or extra pockets that weren't apparent at first glance. I'd struggled with them on occasion, when her phone was ringing in some undiscoverable location. I could hear the phone, and feel the phone through the wall of the bag, but find a way to extract the phone from the bag? Impossible.

It wasn't the case here, though. Merope's was a simple bag: one big pocket, two big handles. No secrets, no hidden pouches, no surprises. I'd already seen everything there was to see.

I furtively mulled over her three extra IDs for a bit. Why furtively? They couldn't all be legitimate, so the simple act of possessing several identity cards made me feel guilty and vulnerable. A random passerby could see at a glance that I was holding multiple drivers licenses. Could I be arrested simply for possessing fake IDs? Was holding three fakes three times worse than having one fake? I didn't know, so I tucked the extra IDs safely back in their envelope. For a moment I was tempted to toss them in the trash. The only reason I didn't was my hope that Rowan would be able to learn something from them.

Learn what? I didn't know. If I knew, I wouldn't ask the question, would I?

Why did I call them "extras"? It seemed to me that "Merope Goddard" must be this woman's real name. For one thing, hers was the only ID she kept in her wallet. Another point in Merope's favor was that her date of issue was a year and a half earlier than the others. Last point: the Merope ID looked worn, used, handled. The other IDs appeared uniformly pristine: fresh from the mint, so to speak, even if the dates of issue were months past.

I had to admit, though, that I was out of my depth. My conclusions made sense to me, but that didn't mean I was correct.

Certainly Rowan could cut through my confusion. Policemen see fake IDs all the time, don't they? Rowan probably had a fake drivers license himself when he was a teen. In any case, by now, he had both training and experience. He could probably pick out the fakes from ten feet away. And maybe he'd have an idea why she had three fakes in the first place. What was the point of that?

With a sigh I packed everything away, just the way I found it. Then quite suddenly, I felt very hungry, and that surprised me. After all, I'd eaten my usual breakfast, and less than an hour ago I'd consumed that bizarre scone.

Ah, but it was Anson who ate that food! My previous body, my previous self! I had no idea what Ms. Goddard had eaten and when. In fact, I'd been thinking (a little stupidly) on how abruptly the taste of that weird scone had vanished. Of course it vanished! It left with my old body. The Switcher, after he limped away, was probably asking himself what the devil I'd eaten before he stole my body.

I patted Merope's bag, reflecting that now I had the means to eat whatever sort of lunch I pleased. The question was: what did I want to eat? A quick stroll through downtown would give me some ideas.

Up I stood — and wobbled. Heels! I took a few experimental steps — small, slow steps... doing pretty well, or so I thought! Until I got a sense of my ridiculous posture: bent forward at the waist, backside sticking out, head tilted down so I could stare at my feet. Alright: I needed to work on my execution.

With a deep breath, I straightened up and squared my shoulders. I set my gaze straight, forward, direct, like a soldier. I kept my steps small, but decisive. Now I was making progress. The bricks were treacherous, though: when my heel hit any rough spot, my ankle wobbled dangerously. Clearly, I needed to get off the brick path.

There were plenty of exits; one at each city block, leading immediately to the paved streets of downtown. The closest was only a few yards; I directed my feet that way.

Immediately my incautious left heel sank into the space between two bricks and seemed to lock there. I tugged with my foot, but the shoe wouldn't move. In my old body, as Anson, I wouldn't have had any hope of reaching down to touch my feet — I'd have to sit on something if I needed to reach that far.

Now, as Merope, I was far slimmer, but my attempts to bend down and grab my shoe were hindered by my skirt: the farther I bent, the more I reached, the tighter my skirt constrained me. I began to fear that I'd bust a seam. I was slim, yes, but the skirt was tight. I kept bending my knees, to the point that I risked falling on my ass...

I straightened up. The best course of action was apparent: I needed to slip my foot out of the shoe and then... and then take it from there. Maybe I could nudge the shoe free and slip my foot back inside...

Before I had the slightest moment to lift my heel, a man approached me from behind, swiftly. "Here, let me help," he said. He didn't give me time to react: he simply reached down and grabbed my foot and shoe.

"I— I— was just about to take my shoe off," I stammered, too taken by surprise to protest more firmly.

"No need! No need!" he assured me. By rocking my trapped heel back and forth gently, he freed it, without damaging my shoe.

He straightened up, smiling, wiping his hands against each other.

"Thank you," I murmured, flushing red as a beet.

"Happy to be of service!" he replied. He made the motion of tipping his hat, and then he was gone.

In an overabundance of caution, I moved on tiptoe until I left the path and stood on an ordinary, concrete-paved sidewalk.

Where was I going? I felt a little confused, a little disoriented, after my encounter with that man. It was odd and somehow disturbing; I needed to digest the experience. Honestly, it shocked me. In fact, it shook me. But why?

He didn't touch me inappropriately, I didn't think. He wasn't rude — or was he?

What in his behavior bothered me, exactly? I replayed it in my mind's eye. He came up from behind me. I didn't have a chance to see him; not even a glance. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he grabbed my foot and freed my heel. When my foot was free, he left. He didn't take it as a pretext for chatting me up, which I was glad of. So what was the problem?

Not sure how to see it or understand it, I walked slowly toward downtown. The day was still incredibly lovely. The intense, vivid leaves were everywhere, shushing underfoot. There was a lot to enjoy.

At the same time, I felt perturbed. Was I making a mountain out of a molehill?

Then it clicked, and when it clicked, it made me angry. I said to myself, He grabbed my foot and freed it, the way you'd free a horse or donkey whose hoof was stuck. And that was it: he didn't treat me as a person. I doubted he'd do the same to a man, if a man's foot could somehow stick in a similar trap. He would have said, "Would you like a hand?" or "Do you mind if I—?" Instead, he assumed it was fine to put his hands on me.

Now that I understood what was bothering me, it morphed from a vague sense of shock and unease into a small angry fire. Then the fire dwindled down to nothing. Okay, the thing happened. I didn't die. It wasn't bad... it was only... slightly disconcerting.

I stopped for a moment to get my bearings, and reckoned my best bet for a decent lunch spot would be somewhere along Olduvai Street, just two blocks straight ahead.

Olduvai Street is an interesting mix. First of all, the posh shops are there. But so are the consignment shops, bistros, little pizzerias and ethnic fast food. As usual, Olduvai was busy with both locals and tourists with money. Most of the crowd appeared to be people who worked in the towers nearby: dressed in business casual, no shopping bags, no gawking.

I could feel my food preferences had changed. Hamburgers, pizza, burritos, didn't call out to me — they'd lost their appeal, at least in that moment. I found myself wandering into a vegan fast-food place that I'd never noticed before. I had a plate piled with leafy greens, falafel, humus, red cabbage with walnuts, and... I'm not sure what the other item was... some sort of meatless meatloaf... but everything tasted great; I liked the whole meal; it was *healthy*. I felt it doing me a world of good.

After I finished and cleared my table, I realized that there were no men in the place: only women. They were all professional women, all of them dressed along the same lines as myself. None of them gave me a second look. I blended right in. Is this my new demographic? I wondered. I took the restaurant's card. I was sure I'd be back. It seemed like a reference point I'd need in future.

For about an hour I wandered along Olduvai Street. The clothes stores — of which there were many — took my attention. I have to say, it's not that they drew me — they didn't. It was more the realization on my part that I'd have to pay more attention to that world now: the world of dresses, shoes, of colors and patterns. I'd need to know what's up-to-date and what's outdated. It seemed like a heavy task now, but I was sure my feeling would change, the more I learned about it, the more I immersed myself. Some of the second-hand stores had pieces that were colorful and bold. Would I be able to wear such things? Or would I stick with a more sober, neutral look, like what I was wearing now?

I suppose I could check in at the vegan restaurant, see how the women my (new) age were dressed, and base my decisions on that.

In spite of my musings, in spite of this feeling of having a new world to explore, the hour of walking, of window shopping, wore me out. I got tired, and felt grubby, dehydrated.

I bought a bottle of water and boarded the bus for Lavenrick. I wasn't in any hurry to get there. It wasn't the sort of place a woman would want to hang around alone, before Rowan arrived. Lavenrick is part of Greater Harmish, but It's a run-down area. It's not very appealing as a neighborhood. Even back when I was Anson, I wasn't very comfortable there.

I understood why Rowan lived there: the rents are low.

Even so, I needed to get off Olduvai Street. I needed to sit down. Lavenrick wasn't a great choice, but I had nowhere else to go. The bus was comfortable. The air conditioning was good. I sat. I relaxed. Nobody bothered me. I sipped my water.

Rowan had mentioned a bookstore and a cafe. I could hang out there; I didn't need to stand in the street.

 

---

 

In spite of recent noise about "gentrification" and "up and coming neighborhoods," Lavenrick hasn't changed for decades. The buildings, the sidewalks, the streets, and even the traffic signals and street lights look badly in need of a cleaning. Under the grime there are some architecturally interesting constructions, but inside, what kind of shape were they in? It was hard to imagine you'd find much that was promising when every block featured at least one building with its windows boarded up and its doors secured by thick, heavy chains held by massive padlocks.

The bus dropped me in front of Rowan's apartment. As I stepped off, the driver cautioned me in a low voice, "Be careful out there, lady, be careful."

His well-meant but unnecessary warning sent a chill through me. I looked around, up and down the street, and found literally nothing to be afraid of. As far as I could see, the only other person on the sidewalk was a short, stout woman in a beach chair, doing a crossword with an enormous pencil. She was on the far side of the street, several buildings down. I doubt I could throw a baseball that distance. A transistor radio (the first I'd seen in... what? forty years?) hung from the arm of the chair in a crocheted bag. I couldn't hear it well. Even the sound came from far off: a tinny gospel rendition: When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder.

I had two hours to kill. I tried the bookstore first. It was run by a man in his fifties who incongruously resembled Robert Vaughn, the actor who played Napoleon Solo in The Man From U.N.C.L.E. I think he was also in The Magnificient Seven — or was it The Magnificient Eleven? I couldn't quite remember, and almost asked the man, although he was probably too young to remember.

The building itself was three stories tall and extremely narrow. Inside it wasn't exactly dark, but the lighting had a effect of dimming rather than illuminating. In spite of the full, brilliant daylight outside, all the light inside came from the yellow glow from bare incandescent bulbs dangling at the ends of long, thick cords suspended from the ceiling. The place was crammed with bookshelves separated by narrow aisles. Definitely not up to the fire code. The store was surprisingly deep: from the front door I had an unobstructed view down the central aisle all the way to the building's back door. I could tell it was the back door because the upper half was a pane of white frosted glass, glowing with sunlight.

The owner followed my gaze. He smiled and said, "It's 300 feet, end to end. It's the entire length of the block on that side. I'd like to say that it's the length of a football field, but it's not." He shrugged. "Sometimes I *do* say it anyway, though." He chuckled at his own joke.

I hadn't spoken yet. I found myself taking deep breaths through my nose, sniffing. How long had it been since I'd set foot in a bookshop? As Anson... I couldn't even remember. As Merope... who knows? But the smell, that characteristic odor... there was nothing like it.

Seeing me with my head tilted back, the owner smiled and spoke again. "Nothing like the smell of old books, is there? Unfortunately for me, I can't smell it any more. Every so often it comes upon me, but as a rule... nothing. Tell me, what does it smell like to you?"

"Ah...," I breathed deep and slow, trying to take apart the scents in the air. "I never tried to analyze it before. I just took it as one thing: the fragrance of an old bookstore. Well... something like... chocolate? coffee? vanilla?"

"Those are the usual guesses," he conceded.

"What is it?" I asked. "I mean, what gives old books that smell?"

"I believe it's two things," he said. "The first is that, even after all these years, the paper in the books is drying. The evaporation process releases some aromatic chemicals into the air. Then, too, the books themselves are decomposing. Very, very slowly, but it's definitely happening. That's another component that your nose detects."

"Interesting," I replied.

"Let me know if I can help you find anything, or whether you're looking for any particular books. Otherwise, have fun browsing. My name is Gary."

He looked at me expectantly. I couldn't help it. I had to reply, "I'm Merope."

His eyebrows went up. "You pronounce it merrope, to rhyme with rope?"

"Uh... well, how do *you* pronounce it?" I asked. Honestly, I'd never seen or heard the name before today, and had no idea how anyone said it.

"Well, I'd say merra-pee, to rhyme with therapy, but what do I know? You're the first Merope to ever set foot in my shop; the first Merope I've ever met! I hope you don't mind my saying, but it's such an interesting name! Merope: the faintest of all the stars."

"Excuse me? Faintest? What do you mean by that?" Was he calling me stupid?

"Oh! I'm sorry! I don't mean anything bad by that! Not at all! My mind is like—" He gestured with his fingers, as if he meant to pluck an explanation from the air. "Let me put it this way: I sit in here all day long, thinking of this and thinking of that, with all these books around me. I can't help but follow every chance phrase and wild association my mind comes up with."

"And?"

"And? Oh! Yes! So... Merope is an unusual name, as I said. Putting on my amateur astronomer's hat, I can tell you that Merope is one of the stars in the Pleiades. I'm sure it's not the faintest star in our sky, but it's the faintest in that star cluster. That's all I meant."

I gave a murmured, "Okay, then." He added, "My mind is like... uh, if you say po-tay-toh, I can't help but think pah-tah-toh."

"Let's call the whole thing off," I quipped, half-singing. His face brightened.

"Well, done!" he exclaimed.

I regretted it immediately. I shouldn't have encouraged him. He took half a step closer to me.

"Okay," I said. "I'll guess I'll have a look around."

"Looking for anything in particular?"

"No, just browsing."

"Browse away," he replied with a grand sweep of his hand.

As I moved past his desk, past the spiral stair to the second floor, he scratched his head and gestured toward me with his index finger.

"Merope," he repeated. "Merope was also the mother of he-who-cannot-be-named." He followed that with a significant look.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about," I told him, and took another step further into the shop, away from him.

He frowned. "You're not a Harry Potter fan, then?"

"Nope!"

"None of the books, none of the films?"

I shook my head in the negative.

"Ah. Pity." Undeterred, he dug into his memory once again. "Merope Riddle!"

"Um, no," I replied. Not my-- not Merope's last name, but I wasn't about to tell him what it was.

"No, no — Not you! Merope Riddle was Voldemort's mother!"

"Sorry, I'm not following. Is this still a Harry Potter thing?"

"Yes, yes, I apologize. Merope... Merope Riddle... Voldemort... Harry Potter... I hear a word... an idea... a name and i'm off to the races, pulling out every stray word association. As in this case, to the name Merope."

In spite of wanting to end the conversation, I found myself admitting, "I'm surprised the name means anything to you. Me, myself, I'd never heard the name before."

He frowned, trying to puzzle it out, then asked, "Before what?"

Damn it. Oh, well, out with it. I confessed, "I'm a victim of the Switcher."

"Ohhhh! I see! A very recent victim?"

"Yes, it happened just a couple of hours ago."

He nodded, looking me up and down — an open appraisal, as though my admission gave him license for indiscretion. "I must say," he said, "I can't imagine that you were better off before the switch."

I didn't know how to respond to that... that line. All I could do was clear my throat and repeat that I was going to browse the bookshelves.

He let me walk away at that point, and I did have a good time scanning the shelves, pulling down a book here and there, blowing the dust off some long-untouched tomes...

Every so often he'd pop up. He seemed to have an instinct for when I was bending down to check the lower shelves.

"You were a man before, weren't you," he stated.

"Yeah," I responded curtly.

"I can tell because you're a little stiff, you know? Like you're not quite used to your new... uh... anatomy." He gestured with both hands in front of his chest followed by a second gesture, signifying my hips.

I nodded, not smiling. He seemed to take the hint, and retreated to his desk, up front.

Later, he came back again, this time with the observation/question, "Before the switch, you were an older man, weren't you. And I'm guessing you weighed a fair amount... that you were overweight." He moved his hands as if trying to feel a invisible belly in the air before him. "I'm putting this together from the way you move."

"I see," I replied. I felt that my responses were pretty arid, devoid of any encouragement. Again, he seemed to take the hint, and returned to his desk, but again, it was only a brief respite.

"You said you were switched just a few hours ago."

"Yes."

"That's, uh, not a very long time. Am I right in deducing that you haven't called the Processing Center?"

I didn't answer. I simply stared at him, looking him in the eye. I was getting fed up.

"Can I ask why you didn't call them?" he persisted. "I mean, I guess I understand: what's the point, anyway?"

In spite of myself, I asked, "How do you mean?"

"Well — it's not as though they can *fix* you, right? Not that you need fixing! I mean, this morning you were an old fat guy, right? and now you're a babe. They couldn't switch you back, even if — for some crazy reason — you *wanted* to. It's the Humpty Dumpty principle, right? All the king's horses and all the king's men?"

He chuckled to himself. "Besides, what can they do to you if you don't call? How would they even know?"

I had to confess, he'd raised an interesting question. But now that he asked, now that I thought on it — I'm a computer programmer, and the logic of it was immediately apparent to me. It was a simple linked list. I mused aloud, "I guess there's a chain of switches, you know? Person A swaps with person B, then C, and D, and so on. If A, B, and D call the Processing Center, it won't take long to figure out that C is missing, and who they are, inside and out."

"You've got a point there," he admitted, turning it over in his mind.

"As far as what they can do to help, they can sort out my identity, explain to my family..."

"Hold on, now." He put up his hand to stop me. "You said my family." He shook his head. "You saw the Switcher run off with your body. How long do you think he's going to be happy being you? This guy can be whoever he wants to be — whoever he happens to bump into. Believe me, if you were an old duffer like you say, he's going to swap you out for first younger model he meets. Whoever ends up playing you, THEY will get to meet your family and figure it out. You don't have to worry about it."

"I *do* worry about it, though. I can help but worry about it. It's my family. They'll wonder what happened to me, and I need a chance to at least say goodbye, if not make contact for the future. I didn't suddenly quit caring about them when the Switcher hit me."

He shrugged dismissively. "I'm pretty sure that you're going to have a lot more fun exploring your future than worrying about your past. I mean, look at this—" he took my my left hand and rubbed my ring finger with his thumb. "Not married. There's no sign you ever wore a ring on that finger. I'll bet you never had kids, either. From the look of those clothes, you work in an office somewhere. A nice office. And I'd bet cash money that there's a guy in that office, probably a good looking guy, with a nice sized wallet, and he's dreaming about boning you. Night and day."

I pulled my hand out of his grasp.

"What a lovely picture," I commented, in a voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain.

"Hey, don't knock it. Looking the way you do, you could probably get married in no time. And once you do, you can just sit back and say, Honey, why don't you rub my feet for me? or Baby, will you suck on my toes while I watch TV?" Not seeing the reaction he hoped for, he concluded with a shrug, "Worse things could happen."

"I guess," I acknowledged, not really meaning it.

"Look, I actually know two people who went through those processing centers. The people in those centers — all they want to do is fill out some paperwork and kick you the hell out."

"Don't they do have to do some job placement, and give out new identities?"

"Maybe they used to, but all they do now is give you a thousand bucks, a listing for a shitty job out in West Nowhere, North Dakota, and a bus ticket that'll take you halfway there. You know how people say Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"At the processing centers, they don't even bother to say it."

He went on to recount the experiences of his supposed friends in the processing center. The more he talked, the less I believed. His stories had the smell of urban legend — the sort of thing that happens to "a friend of a friend." Someone you don't know. Someone who has no name. In reality, of course, there is no friend. It's all made up and attributed to an imaginary person.

In spite of my disbelief, I listened. Mainly because I still had time to kill, and he was halfway entertaining, as long as he wasn't hitting on me.

After he ran out of tall tales, he offered me a cup of tea, which put me in mind of the coffeeshop next door. "I own this whole building," he boasted, waving his hand as if to take in his whole domain. "I live on the third floor. I could fix you a nice cup of tea. I've even got those digestive biscuits that the Brits love." Then, struggling to keep his facial expression neutral, he offered, "I've also got a bed up there, if you, ah, need to lie down after your ordeal."

I declined, politely if somewhat icily, and left.

 

---

 

The atmosphere in the cafe was much easier. The couple who ran the place were friendly, but not chatty. I tried to dawdle and make my muffin and cup of coffee last as long as possible, but after thirty minutes I was ready to leave. It was a nice place, but it wasn't a very large one, and I felt like a dog in a manger after my coffee was gone. Oddly, after the coffee, I felt a hankering for a cigarette. Funny, because I didn't notice either cigarettes or a lighter in the bag. It wasn't a very strong desire, but...

I asked at the counter, "Do you sell loose cigarettes?"

She gave me a strange look. "That's illegal, don't you know?"

"I didn't know," I told her. "But it would pass the time, and I don't want a full pack."

So... no cigarettes. After a few minutes the desire was gone.

At a loss for anything better to do, I walked two blocks North, then came back again. I looked at the time. Still early. I walked two blocks South, then back again. One block East, then back again, and at that point Rowan arrived. Grinning like a possum eating sweet potato, he asked, "Mr C?"

Rowan — if I had to describe him in a word — looks like a cop. He's six feet tall, long, strong upper body, strong arms and legs. Lean, without a scrap of body fat on him. His shoulders and hips are narrow, like his head, giving him an almost feral look. Not like a wolf, though: if Rowan were an animal, he'd be a wild dog, or a dingo, or a coyote. As far as looks... he was the kind of man that women call "not bad looking."

"Unfortunately yes, it's me," I assured him. "Can we get off the streets?"

Walking in this part of town — as opposed to walking downtown or along the river — was rather hot work. There were no trees or grass. The streets, the sidewalks, and the buildings radiated all the heat they accumulate during the day, and there wasn't a breath of wind. Consequently, I was drenched with perspiration, even the palms and backs of my hands.

"I wouldn't say unfortunately," he shot back with a big grin. Rowan give me a thorough visual assessment, nodding as his eyes traveled from my feet to my head, then back down again. "You've done pretty well for yourself, Mr C. Definitely an improvement! Not that there was anything wrong with the old you! But the new you... You're something else."

"Stop it, please," I muttered, shaking my head.

"Come on, Mr C! I'm just teasing! Trying to lighten the mood. Even so, everything I said is 100% true." He opened the building's front door and we stepped into the entryway. "Just gotta get my mail," he narrated, as he unlocked the the small, narrow, incredibly squeaky door and fished out some bills and advertisements. Finally, he unlocked the inner door and we passed through into a long hallway. The air was cool, but seemed old somehow.

"No elevator," he explained in an apologetic tone, and he pushed open the door to the stairwell. "Luckily, it's only one flight." He gestured with his hand, saying, "Ladies first," as if it was a capital joke.

Earlier, in the bookstore — and against my better judgment — I had climbed a spiral staircase (much to the interest of the owner, Gary). This stair was less awkwardly constructed than the tight, rickety spiral, but once again I felt the constraint of my tight skirt around my thighs. And, as Gary had so ungraciously pointed out, I wasn't quite used to my new anatomy.

With a sigh, I explained to Rowan, "This skirt doesn't seem tight until I have to actually move my legs — and the damn thing makes me walk funny!"

"Oh, do you think so?" Rowan asked.

"Well, yes!" I exclaimed. "It's as though my thighs were bound together. I can't lift my foot to the next step without practically pressing my knees together and swinging my hip to the side!"

"Is it like [he cleared his throat] is it like when you're driving, and you have to take your turns wide?"

"Well, it's something like—" I began, but stopped when Rowan had a fit of coughing. Concerned, I turned back to look at him, and realized that he was laughing, not coughing. "Oh, it's SO funny, isn't it!" I exclaimed, red-faced with indignation and embarrassment.

"No, no!" he protested. "Look: I'll admit you're a little awkward. But you're definitely not funny," and he let out a few coughing laughs.

"If it's not funny, why are you laughing?"

"It's the things you say!" he cried. "Believe me, if you weren't describing it, any man alive would be silent, fascinated by your bee-hind as you climb the stairs."

"Hmmph!"

"That's a good thing, believe me."

I huffed, trying to move a little faster.

"Mr C, you should be pleased to know: I'm giving your caboose a very high rating on the Rowan scale."

"Rowan, these comments of yours are more than a little rude, and not very sensitive. This Switcher episode has put me very much out of sorts. Finding myself in a woman's body is confusing and disconcerting!" After a pause, I added in a quieter voice, "And often humiliating."

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I wasn't trying to hit on you or even tease you. Honestly, I thought I was doing you a favor."

"Doing me a favor? What on earth are you talking about? How could speaking to me that way possibly be doing me a favor?"

"Okay, look: I tried to put myself in your position — seriously! And I figured, one, that you used to be a guy... so you wouldn't get all worked up and offended the way a woman... might. And, two, I figured that... now that you're a woman, you'd find it reassuring."

"Reassuring? Rowan, those are not the—"

He interrupted, speaking with a lot of emphasis: "Reassured about how you look," he said. "A lot of women are insecure. They don't know how they look to men, and I figured you'd want to know how attractive you are. You have killer legs, for instance."

"Well, uh, then, uh, thanks — I guess."

"And don't worry: I'm not hitting on you. I'm not going to hit on you. I have a girlfriend. A serious girlfriend." We'd reached the top of the stair. He reached past me to open the door to the upstairs hallway. "Incidentally," he added in a quieter tone, "my girlfriend can be quite jealous."

I paused in the doorway. "Okay, noted. Does she live with you?"

"No... not yet, anyway. But if she calls, don't talk or make noise, alright? And if she comes over, just... act normally."

"That's what I usually do," I assured him.

Like all the other apartment doors in this building, Rowan's door was a thick, heavy, six-panel knotty pine affair, with three locks. His apartment surprised me. I expected an environment that reflected the outside: I expected empty beer bottles, old hamburger wrappers and pizza boxes, but there was none of that. The place was spotless and in good order. The walls were painted a creamy beige. Everything was wood and earth tones. The furniture was sparse: a love seat, an armchair, a coffee table, a small sideboard — all of it tasteful, harmonious. It wasn't luxurious, mind you: most of the pieces were clearly second- or third-hand, but carefully chosen. The only thing on the walls was a framed poster of a vintage advertisement, probably from the 1920s. It showed a woman lounging on a couch, wearing headphones. I don't recall the brand.

"Wow, Rowan! I didn't expect this!"

Rowan disappeared into his kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open, followed by the hiss of a beer bottle opening, and the clatter of its cap on the kitchen counter.

"You expected some kind of pigsty, didn't you?" he countered. Sticking his head out from the kitchen doorway he asked, "Beer? Water? Something else?"

"A beer, if it's cold," I answered.

He popped another open for himself, and walked over to hand one to me. It was so cold there were thin bits of ice sliding down the outside of the bottle. I tipped the bottle to my lips and gratefully took a healthy mouthful.

"Hmmph," he observed, with a grin, "You're still enough of a guy that you don't need a glass. I bet you're going to let a rock-shattering burp rip in a minute."

"I would never—" I began, thinking that I didn't "let rip" burps as Anson, but as I spoke, a bolt of gas slipped out, under my radar. It erupted into a sharp, frog-like belch. Rowan laughed, snorting, "You almost reached the Richter scale with that one."

"Sorry, I—"

He waved my apology off. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question, Mr C: you thought I lived in a pigsty, didn't you?"

"Well, not as bad as that...," I hedged. "I expected... well... empty bottles, pizza boxes... I mean, I didn't expect furniture this nice... everything tasteful and coordinated... and all so clean. I'm sorry, I underestimated you." I stopped, catching a scent in the air— "It even smells clean! Is that an herbal scent? It's almost faint, but definitely there."

"Yep. Scented candle from yesterday, or the day before." He took a swig from his beer. "Anyway, though, I'll admit — if you visited here maybe a year ago, it would have been like you said. Not a pigsty per se, but... you had the details right. All this... cleanliness and harmony and nice smell... this is all due to Femke, my girlfriend."

"Femke? Is she Dutch?"

"Yep. She's great. She could probably give you some pointers about being female, if you're open to it."

"Sounds like a great idea."

Rowan took a step back, away from me, and made some strange facial contortions. "Um, speaking of scents," he said, bringing the back of his hand near his nose, "You've been sweating pretty hard, haven't you."

"Oh, sorry, do I smell bad?"

"Big time. Listen, I want to hear the story of your encounter with the Switcher, but first you need a shower. I'll give you a towel. Use the girly looking shampoo and body wash and such in the shower. I'll lay out some of Femke's clothes on the bed that you can wear." He glanced at his watch. "When you go into the bathroom, hand me out your clothes and I'll run them down to the dry cleaner around the corner. They have a rush service; they'll have them ready by morning."

"Okay," I agreed. "Just one thing, though: while I'm in there, can you go through this woman's bag? See if you can figure out what... uh... well, whatever you can out about her. Okay?"

"Sounds intriguing," he agreed. "Oh, and if you're hungry, I can order some Chinese. There's a great place a few blocks from here."

 

---

 

Showering was quite an interesting experience, though I didn't have time to dwell on my anatomical changes. Rowan cautioned me that the hot water tends to run out quickly. "So do your hair and your face, first and fast. Just remember that a cold blast is coming." And so it did! I managed to clean my head and upper body with hot water, but ended by dancing in an icy spray as I rinsed the soap off my legs and feet.

Honestly, though, as different as it felt to have a full pair of breasts as well as a completely reformatted pelvis, the most interesting part of the shower was washing my hair! Anson's hair was sparse and thin. It was decades since I enjoyed the sensation of running my fingers through my hair, and Merope had plenty of hair.

As I dried myself, I examined my new face in the mirror. I liked it. It wasn't show-stoppingly beautiful, but it was nice enough. Merope looked like a good person, even if her purse might say otherwise.

But then, a question came. I opened the door a crack and yelled, "Rowan? Are you here?"

"Yes, I'm here. What do you need?"

I shouted, "What does Femke do with her hair after a shower?"

"In the middle drawer of the vanity there's a big comb, with big teeth. She combs her hair with it, like a thousand times."

I fetched the comb and washed it with hand soap. I ran it through my hair and immediately hit a snag. "Patience," I counseled myself. Better get dressed first, I realized.

Rowan had laid out a light yellow sports bra, a pair of white panties, soft blue shorts, and a small, tie-dyed blue t-shirt that read, I'M NOT ANGRY, I'M JUST SMILING IN DUTCH.

The shorts were a little snug, but aside from that, the clothes fit me pretty well. They were far more comfortable than the business clothes Merope wore.

When I emerged from the bedroom, Rowan glanced at me and asked, "Clothes okay?"

"They're fine. They're great. Thanks."

"You can thank Femke, when you meet her," he replied with a little grin.

"Is she coming tonight?"

"No, but you'll meet her eventually, I'm sure. Um, look over there—" he pointed to a small drying rack. "Your intimates. I handwashed them in Woolite and hung them to dry."

"Dry cleaner? Woolite?" I asked. "Rowan, you're really been domesticated, haven't you?"

"I've learned a few things," he replied, still smiling, not rising to the bait, though I sensed I might be touching a nerve. "I'm not a complete savage."

"Yes, I can see that." I had to be careful, to not tease him too much. I needed his help now, and would probably need him in future, so there was no point in aggravating him.

Rowan was sitting at his small dining table with the contents of Merope's purse spread across it, along with his laptop.

"Revenons à nos moutons," Rowan announced grandly, "Let's get back to the matter at hand!" He opened his hands, palms up, as if he were displaying all of Merope's possessions. "This is a very interesting woman," he said. "Our Miss Merope is a quite the woman of mystery."

"Mystery!" I repeated, "Is she a good mystery, or a bad mystery?"

"Is there a difference?" he replied.

 

Merope, Maybe : 3 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"Trouble shared is trouble halved."
— English proverb

---

 

"It makes a BIG difference!" I cried. "If this woman is a career criminal, or a spy, or if she's on the run from the law, I— I— I don't want that! I don't want to start out this life in a heap of trouble!"

"All right, fine, I get it," he responded, low key. "But try to calm down, okay? Everyone in the building doesn't need to know the details of your new life, okay?"

"Right. Okay," I agreed in a quieter voice.

"You don't inherit her troubles. Same way as you don't inherit her debts, if she has any. Keep in mind: the processing center is going to give you a clean slate, right? Whatever this Merope person did or does, it's not going to stick on you. You could even get a brand-new name, if you want one — although I think you ought to stick with Merope."

I noticed that Rowan was pronouncing it merra-pee, exactly the way the man in the bookstore had.

"Rowan, have you heard this name before? Merope?"

"Nope. First time ever. I had to look up how to pronounce it."

I was relieved to hear that. I didn't want to be the only dummy who'd never heard the name before.

"But look," I told him, returning to my previous point, "suppose she's mixed up with the wrong kind of people — you know, criminals. Maybe she stole that money—" I gestured to the cash, sitting on Rowan's table "—maybe people are coming after her. I mean, even if they give me a new name and all that, they aren't going to give me a new face. I mean, they aren't going to spring for plastic surgery. I don't want someone to recognize her on the street and stab me or shoot me for something she's done!"

Rowan smiled — not quite laughing, but almost. "Don't let your imagination run wild. I'm pretty sure I know where the money came from.'"

The buzzer sang out. Our Chinese take-out had arrived. I tried to give Rowan a twenty from Merope's stash, but he refused to take it. "You'll need it," he advised.

The food was excellent. For about five minutes, the two of us stuffed our faces in silence. Then, Rowan asked me to recount my experience with the Switcher. I pushed back; I tried to insist that he go first, and tell me what he'd discovered about Merope Goddard (if that really is her name), but he flatly refused.

"Look: your Switcher experience is over," he said. "It's a story with a beginning, middle, and — above all — an end. You tell it, it's done. But once we start on Merope... we could end up talking all night. I want to hear about the Switcher. I've never met anyone who was switched before."

I told him my story. I tried to keep it brief. Honestly, it was pretty brief already. Rowan found it amusing that the Switcher got stuck — at least temporarily — in the body of an overweight retiree with a twisted ankle. I was offended by his chuckles, even if that part of me had awkwardly stumbled out of my life, and I'd probably never see him again.

On the other hand, Rowan was intrigued by the metal cylinders. "The Switcher took four little cylinders — it was four, right? — out of the bag, but he didn't take any of money?"

"That's right."

"Weird."

"Are you sure the cylinders weren't rolls of money? Did you get a good look?"

"Yes, I got a good look, and no, they were too long to be rolls of money. And they weren't very big around. Anyway, I'm sure they were metal. Like aluminum or steel. I heard them clink and clank against each other in his hand, and when he put them in his pockets."

He frowned, thoughtful. "Were there any markings on the cylinders?"

"Not that I could see. They were all smooth, unmarked, no labels." I shrugged to show that I knew no more.

"Did they make any sound, like a rattle? Like there was something inside?"

"Nope," I shot back tersely. I was beginning to get a little impatient.

He tried a few guesses as to what the cylinders could be, but none of them were even remotely plausible.

"Okay, enough about the cylinders," I told him, a little peeved. "I want to talk about Merope. Did you figure anything out?"

"I did," he said, "A fair amount, but first, I have to ask you: why did you call me? Why didn't you call the processing center?"

I let out a long breath. "I don't know," I said. "I know that I was supposed to, but..." I made some vague, helpless gestures with my hands. "It's just that, on TV, in the public-service announcements, they make it seem simple: This morning, you were Tom. Now, you're Harry! What fun! But they're wrong! It's not fun, and it's NOT simple! It's not simple at all." I paused a moment to think. "You know, one of those spots ends with this ten-year-old kid, who supposedly used to be a 45-year-old man. He looks into the camera and says, We all have to play the hand we're dealt. Then he makes a stupid joke about shuffling." I looked Rowan in the face. He was sympathetic, listening. "Okay, so: some hands are easier than others. I mean, imagine if this woman—" I gestured at myself "—imagine if she was suddenly dumped into my old body: she'd double her age and double her weight in a instant — plus all the other changes... Or what if you're ten years old and you're suddenly in the body of a terminally ill ninety-year-old? I'm lucky, I know it: I've been shifted back to the beginning of my life. I've got decades of possibilities ahead of me. Whoever the Switcher puts into my old body... well, they aren't quite at the end, but if they were young, they'd lose all those decades of possibilities."

Rowan didn't answer. Was he really listening? I had the feeling he was simply waiting for me to finish talking. Even so, I felt like there was something important I wanted to say, but... I couldn't articulate it. So, with a sigh, I dropped it. There were more important things to talk about. I looked up at him and asked, "Okay, so tell me: who is Merope Goddard?"

Rowan smiled and rubbed his hands. "Alright! Let's put it this way: she *was* doing something bad, but she's not a career criminal, at least as far as I can see. All in all, I think you were pretty lucky, landing in her life."

My eyebrows popped up. I leaned forward, expectant. He held his hand up to say hold your horses a minute! and said, "I just want to point out that you didn't answer my question. You didn't tell me why you called me instead of the processing center, but — whatever. It's fine. I'll let it go."

I huffed in frustration. "I thought I did tell you! I wanted help figuring out who she is, or was! I don't know whether the center will take the time to do that!" After a pause I added, "I'm not sure they'll go as far as I want them to go. I didn't think they'd answer all the questions I had, especially about her potentially criminal life. Also, I want to know whether I'm in any kind of danger."

He nodded. "Okay. I get it."

"Another thing: I think they'd look at this stuff and unilaterally make some big decisions for me. I just... I just want to have some input. I want to make my own plans, as far as I can."

Rowan nodded. "I get it," he said. Then he slipped his hands into a pair of gloves.

He explained, "If you bring these to the center, I don't want my fingerprints on any of it. I used gloves every time I touched this stuff."

He grouped the three extra IDs and tapped them with his index finger. "These are all fake. They look like the real thing, but all three are fake."

"Fake? How can you tell?"

"I'm a cop. We have a database; I looked up the license numbers — or at least, I tried to. These numbers don't exist. They look right, at least superficially, but if you search for them, you get a goose egg." He waved his hand dismissively. "This one is supposed to have a hologram printed over it, and this one is supposed to have a magnetic strip on the back. In any case, the details don't matter. What's important is that there's nothing useful for you here, because all the information is bogus. I tried the names, but they don't exist, either: no credit history, no social media presence, no local news references — nothing. The addresses are phony, as well. They don't exist. Either the streets aren't there or the numbers aren't there or both. Everything comes from the land of NOT FOUND." He paused and took a swig of beer. "The credit cards, on the other hand, were good — at least the numbers anyway — until about two or three weeks ago, when they were reported stolen."

I frowned, and felt my face turning red.

"I think I can explain all that," he said. "But first, good news! In spite of what I just said, none of these names, including Merope's, have a criminal record. No outstanding warrants — at least not in this state, or in the states named on the drivers licenses."

"So the Merope ID is real?"

"Merope is a real person, yes.

"And she's from Omaha?"

"Yes, she's Omahamian — or whatever you call a person from Omaha."

"I call them a person from Omaha."

He laughed.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, remembering, "You said I should stick with the Merope ID. Why is that?"

"I'll come to that," he said. "But first, I have a pretty simple explanation for the multiple IDs and credit cards. It's more than likely that Merope was making a little money, buying stuff with stolen credit cards."

"How does that work?"

"There'll be a guy who organizes it. He gathers stolen card numbers, and he puts those numbers on blank credit cards, along with a fake name — real card number, fake name. He also makes a fake drivers license in that same fake name."

"Why?"

"Someone like Merope will take a pair of fakes -- a credit card and a drivers license -- into a big store and buy a huge TV or a computer — something like that. A big-ticket item. Hopefully she'll get out of the store before the card is reported stolen. Out in the parking lot, she hands the merchandise to the guy who gave her the card. He gives her a couple hundred bucks, which is a small cut of what he makes when he sells the TV at a discount."

"I see."

"There's $10,000 in the envelope... a little more than $2500 in the wallet. Most of it she probably earned legally... she probably had a legitimate job... maybe she sold her belongings before she left Omaha... because if she earned her money the way I just described, buying big-ticket items with stolen cards, it would have been forty, fifty... maybe even sixty trips to different stores, which is a lot. Too many, in fact. Especially when you consider that you can't keep hitting the same stores. So I think this was a side gig for her. Not her regular profession. Not her principal source of income."

He gathered the cards and squared up the stack. "Judging by the dates the cards were reported stolen, Merope probably used these cards — or was supposed to use these cards — three or four weeks ago, before the Switcher caught her. She should have already destroyed them. In fact, it shows that she didn't do this a lot. Somebody who *did* do this a lot wouldn't have hung onto these cards and IDs. Like I said, probably just a little side gig; something she did a handful of times. Nothing to worry about."

"Should I throw the fakes away then?" I was a bit alarmed by having any fake IDs at all. I didn't want to carry them, even if I fully intended to hand them over to the processing center. They felt... radioactive. "Is there a safe way to destroy them?"

"I'm not sure what to do with them yet," he replied. "We can wait until you come back from the processing center and cut the cards up then. Or hand them in. It depends on how much you want to tell the people at the center; which way you want to go."

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

"I don't know what you mean, Rowan. I have to tell them the truth, don't I? What choice do I have? I've got to tell them everything. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise, what? Just think for a minute: What would happen if the Switcher threw this bag in the trash before he met you? You wouldn't know anything about it. You wouldn't even know your name. Neither would the processing center."

"But that's not what happened."

"What if the Switcher took all the problematic stuff out of the bag before he met you? You wouldn't know anything about the money, about the fake IDs... and neither would the processing center."

"Yes, but—"

"No buts. When you go in there, all they know is what you tell them -- and what's in the bag. If we set the money aside, leave just — say — $45 in the wallet, the folks at the center will look in and say, "Huh. Forty-five dollars. Why didn't the Switcher take it?"

At first I was speechless. Then I protested, repeating, "I have to tell the truth, don't I?"

"Do you?" he asked. "In any case, I never said you should lie. I think it would be a good idea to leave some things out — like this money, for instance. Suppose you go in tomorrow with all the money. What are the chances they'll confiscate it?"

After a pause, I mumbled, "I don't know... fifty-fifty?"

"Yeah. I don't think they'll have a problem confiscating the money. I mean, it's Merope's money, right? Are you Merope?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"No matter how Merope got this money, she earned it. Don't throw it away! You're going to need it."

"I guess."

"Look, I'm going to leave $45 bucks or so in the wallet, and I'll keep the rest here until the center is done with you." Rowan moved some of the currency from the wallet to the money envelope and went to hide the envelope somewhere in his bedroom. When he returned, he said, "I think you ought to leave the fake IDs and credit cards here with me as well. I mean, especially if you want to keep Merope's ID. You go in there with four sets of identification, they'll probably take them all off of you."

"Why would I want Merope's ID?" I asked him.

He looked at me, clearly weighing something in his mind. "Let's hold off on that, okay? I have a reason, and I'll tell you, but I want to get through the stuff in this purse first."

Rowan sat down at the table and motioned for me to sit as well. He picked up the bag. "Let's set aside the easy stuff." He took the small pack of tissues, the lipstick, the tampon and sanitary pad, and set them at one end of the table. "Just regular women's stuff."

"Then, we have this." He held up the pen. "This is kind of unusual. It's special."

"It's a nice looking pen," I acknowledged.

"It's more than nice looking," he told me. "This pen is expensive. It's a Pineider Rollerball in Bordeaux Methacrylate. Don't be impressed; I had to look it up. It costs more than $600. That's a little strange, because Merope's bag is nothing special. You'd think that someone who has a pricey pen would have a bag from Louis Vuitton or whatnot. I mean — not that this isn't a nice bag, but I looked it up, too, and you can find it on sale at Macy's for $20 downtown. Also, the pen is in pristine condition, while the bag looks like it's been in daily use for a couple months."

"Are you saying the pen was stolen?"

"No, I'm just pointing out that it's incongruous. It sticks out; it doesn't fit. BUT, we can't jump to conclusions. Maybe Merope had a thing for expensive pens. Who knows? Right now we're just collecting facts. Okay? Moving on: the wallet, like the bag, is nothing special."

"And that's it!" I exclaimed. "There's nothing else! I still don't know who this woman is!"

"Wait," Rowan said. "There's more. I mean, let's think about what's missing."

I looked at the items lying on the table. "There's no phone."

"Correct."

"There aren't any photos, or papers."

"Right."

"No store receipts or business cards. There's nothing to tell me who she was or where she's been."

"Something else is missing," Rowan prompted.

I turned my gaze once again to the items on the table. I thought about the items Cleo usually carried. It seemed like her bag was always stuffed with papers and... "Hand sanitizer?" I ventured. I tried to picture Cleo, digging through her bag, looking for...

"Keys!" I exclaimed.

"Exactly," he agreed, and sat back in his chair with a smug smile.

"And what's so great about that?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "let's talk about this more-or-less empty purse. I've never seen a woman with a bag so empty. Have you? Do you think the Switcher went to the trouble of cleaning it out? Of purging all Merope's stuff?"

"Seems unlikely. Why would he bother?"

"I'm guessing that Merope did it. I think she came to Harmish looking for a fresh start. I bet she was going for a job interview. That's why she wore those nice clothes. I think she was done with Omaha and didn't like earning money illegally. She came here to start over! So... how do you think she got here?"

"How would I know?" I shot back, a little irritated by the question. "Train? Plane? Bus?"

"She drove here," he replied, crossing his arms and smiling even more smugly than before.

"How do you know that?"

"Because her car was ticketed not far from downtown. Expired meter."

I tried to consider what it could mean to me, but all I came up with was, "Okay, so if I'm Merope, I have some kind of car."

"Right. A ten-year-old Corolla. Color: yellow."

"But there's no key."

"If you're Merope, you can have a key made. You call a locksmith. They want to see that your drivers license matches the name on the registration, and you can show that."

I fell silent, thinking about how much that would cost.

"If you want to know who Merope was, that car is probably full of clues."

"I guess," I conceded.

"I'm sure," he countered. "Okay, here's the plan—" as he spoke, he swept the tissues, the lipstick, the tampon and sanitary pad into the bag. "You take this bag with you to the center tomorrow morning—" He picked up the wallet, inserted Merope's ID and credit card, and $47 dollars. "Forty-seven bucks," he said. "That's believable."

Then, with a sigh, he dropped the pen into the bag as well. "I hate to see this go. Those clowns will probably confiscate it. Try to keep it if you can. They don't have any right to take it, but..."

Then he asked for my phone — Anson's phone. He looked at it. "You turned it off. Did you call your wife? Did you call Herman?"

"No," I said. "I'm feeling really guilty. Cleo's probably worrying..."

"If you call her now, you're going to make a mess. Leave it to the processing center to make the first contact. As far as I know, they'll bring the two of you together — or the three of you together — to see if your family will let you live with them."

"Will let me live with them?" I repeated, my voice rising. "LET me live with them? It's my house! Bought and paid for by me!"

"Try to keep your voice down," Rowan reminded me. "The *me* you're talking about is Anson. You're not Anson any more."

With that, he dropped my phone — Anson's phone — into Merope's bag.

"Why are you doing that?" I demanded.

"Calm down," he said. "You want these guys to let you be Merope. If you give them something to scold you about, something they can legitimately take from you, they're more likely to let you get away with something else."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Trust me, it does. Plus, if they're lazy, letting you stay Merope means less paperwork for them."

He pushed the bag toward me and stripped his gloves off. "Take this bag, just like this, tomorrow morning. Don't talk about what's not there. Don't even hint at what used to be there. Don't tell them any of the things we learned. Just forget everything that's not in the bag, okay? Tell them that you saw the Switcher take stuff out. Tell them all about the cylinders. It's probably important. They are probably the reason he's in town." I glanced away for a moment, so he snapped his fingers to get my attention. "Listen to me. Listen carefully: Don't add anything to what actually happened, okay? No embellishments. Don't make stuff up. Don't lie. Don't draw any conclusions for them. Don't give them any theories. Don't say that he took the envelope or anything but the cylinders. You don't know about any envelopes because you never saw any envelopes." He studied my face for a moment. "Can you do that?"

"Of course I can!"

"Okay. So tell me: what's in the bag?"

"Tissues. Feminine hygiene products. Wallet. Lipstick. Anything else?"

"You forgot the pen, but it's fine."

 

---

 

The bag's contents were analyzed and settled. "What's next?" I asked, "Rowan... What's the plan? Tomorrow morning, I call the center?"

"No, you don't have to do that. I'll drive you," he said. "We have to leave at about seven, which is when the dry cleaners opens. It'll take about 40 minutes to get to the center. That'll give us twenty minutes leeway up there in case of complications, and give me plenty of time to drive back and get to work on time."

"Have you been to the center before?"

"No. I've never been there. I told you: I never met anyone who was switched before. I looked up the address. It's a straight shot up I-60. Easy-peasy."

"Why is it so far away?"

"It costs money to run these places. Money, infrastructure, personnel... They call the centers regional, but some of the so-called regions cover three states."

"Do you think they might insist on giving me a new identity and sending me to live far away?" I asked.

He shook his head. "It's unlikely. Think about their procedure: First off, they find out who you are — I mean, the you inside; who you used to be. In your case, Anson Charpont. At the same time, they figure out who you are now, the physical you. In your case, Merope Goddard."

He took a breath. "Your situation is that of the typical Switcher victim: you've got a foot in two different worlds, Anson's world and Merope's world. The people at the center will see if they can fit you into one or the other. Your old family is closer. They'll probably call Cleo and Herman right away and — like I said before — they'll ask Anson's family if you can live with them."

I harrumphed. "I don't see how they can refuse me."

"They can. They absolutely can. Legally, Anson is dead. Or could be pronounced dead. It depends on what your family wants."

"You're not selling this very well, Rowan!"

"I'm not trying to sell it! I'm trying to adjust your expectations. Anyway... suppose your family says yes to you. Great! Then you go off to live with Cleo, and maybe with whoever is Anson now."

"Oh," I said in a small voice, getting the picture. "I didn't think about that! Now... with a different old me in the picture, it doesn't sound promising. They'd have to ask Cleo about him, too, right? What are the chances she'd want either of us? What are the chances she'd want both?"

"It would be awkward, to say the least. But you never know." He scratched his head. "Cleo... Herman... could decide to go for it."

I tried to picture myself, Merope, living with Cleo — or living with Herman. It was difficult to imagine.

"At the same time, they'll look into Merope Goddard. Does she have a family somewhere? Has she been reported missing? The center will reach out to Merope's people. Maybe Merope has parents who wonder where she's gone." Rowan gave a roguish smile. "Or maybe Merope has a husband, a man with a hard body and a desperate longing."

"Hardly," I told him in a dry tone. "Merope is already an adult, and she isn't married." I held up my left hand as evidence.

Rowan shrugged. "She might have a boyfriend." I made a face. "Maybe even a fiance." Rowan grinned. "He might be well endowed."

"Oh, Christ, Rowan!"

"He might be VERY well endowed."

"That's enough of that! I get the picture: The processing center looks at my old world and my new world and asks each one if they want me."

"That's a good way to put it. Then, if you're a no-go in both directions, they give you their whole-new-life bit. It's a package deal: a new name, a Greyhound bus ticket, and the offer of a shitty job that you'd never take. They walk you to the door, tell you the world is your oyster, and give you a great big swat on the butt, 'cause it's your birthday."

"Hmmph. You make it sound very bleak and cynical."

"You have to remember: the people in the center are just doing a job. You can't expect them to care. They get people in there who are freaking out, demanding to be put back in their old bodies. It's tough. It's hard work."

Rowan thought for a second, then told me. "So listen: the main thing, when you're dealing with them, is don't be demanding and don't freak out. Don't be pushy. The worst thing you can say is YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. It triggers them. If you say those words they will screw you in every way they can."

"Why would they do that?" I demanded. "They are there to help me!"

"Okay, yes, technically, yes, but, remember — they deal with freaked-out people all day, every day, okay? If *you* freak out, you're just another hysteric in a long line of hysterics. You'll be one more bad day, and that's all. They'll just want to get rid of you. On the other hand, if your attitude is, I'm cool with this. I'll be happy to wait if I have to... I'll be glad to leave here peacefully and get on with my life. I'll make-do with the hand I've been given — if you're like that, they'll be more likely to actually help you. Okay? Don't be demanding, don't freak out on them, and do NOT tell them what they're supposed to be doing. Act like you're on their team. Respect their time and their efforts, and everything will be okay. Okay?"

I didn't answer, so he asked again, "Okay?"

I nodded.

 

---

 

I nodded a second time, and suddenly felt very sleepy. A whole-body tiredness hit me all at once. In spite of myself, I let out a huge, open-mouthed yawn.

"All right," Rowan said. "You can sleep in the bedroom. I'll take the couch. What time do you want me to wake you?"

"We're leaving at seven? Wake me at six-thirty," I replied.

 

---

 

Now that I was finally alone, I sat on the edge of his bed. It felt surprisingly firm and comfortable. I looked around the room. There were two doors: one for the closet, one for the living room. There was one huge curtainless window, looking out on the bookstore and cafe across the street. The only furniture was a bureau. The bureau was centered between the outside wall and the door to the living room, leaving a small empty space.

I squeezed into the opening between bureau and wall, and lowered my butt to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest, I rocked gently and quietly, thinking about Cleo. How would she react? She'll be angry, I told myself. She'll blame me, even if it's not my fault.

Or could she be happy to finally be rid of me? It seemed that lately all I could do was irritate and disappoint her.

My mind played over the events of the day. If only I hadn't argued with the Switcher. If only I hadn't stood on the bench. If only I'd turned west at the river. If only, if only.

Cleo, it's not my fault, I told her in my mind, as if she could hear me. It's really not my fault, I repeated, and started to cry, snuffling as quietly as I could manage.

 

Merope, Maybe : 4 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"To most of us it seems a terrible thing for a person not to know who he really is."
— Milton Rokeach, The Three Christs of Ypsilanti

---

 

After I'd cried myself to the point of exhaustion, I became aware of a soft, gentle sound... like a cooing. Was it pigeons? Raising my head, I focused all my attention on the sound. It wasn't constant; it came and went, like faint waves, hissing quietly on a distant beach. I tried to still my breathing, taking soft, shallow breaths. I sat motionless, my ears seeking out the source, until a low tone came in and made everything clear: It was Rowan, talking, having a hushful phone conversation. He was trying to not wake me. The other voice was too small and too far off for me to hear. I only got Rowan's half of the conversation, but of that, none of the words; only the murmur of his affectionate, sensual tone.

He must be talking with Femke, I told myself.

The sound was strangely soothing, like an emotional anchor for my shipwrecked soul. Listening to Rowan's kind yearning made it easier for me to think about Cleo. I didn't feel the pressure to parse out how much guilt I had to bear for what had happened to me. My breath quiet, almost imperceptible, I drank in the affirmations of his love for Femke. The muffled words pushed away my anxious need to blame myself or to search for some kind of pardon.

Sitting very still, holding my knees, tilting my head back to hear better... Rowan's voice was enough. It fed my soul.

I felt absolutely sure I wouldn't sleep a wink, sitting as I was on the hard, bare floor, wedged in between the bureau and the wall. The beer must have made me sleepy and susceptible, and the emotions of the day clearly wore me out — far more than I realized... I closed my eyes one moment, and the next moment, when I opened them, the pale light of morning was touching my window and filling the room.

Stiffly I got to my feet and looked down at my body: my new breasts, my smooth young legs. It wasn't a dream. I'd been switched. It really happened. The Switcher was no urban legend. I'd met him, and my life would never be the same.

Blinking, I examined the unfamiliar face in the mirror. How long until I'd be used to seeing the new me? How long before I'd expect to see that face, and feel that it was mine, and not some strange mistake or elaborate prank?

I had nice skin, though: soft, no zits, no obvious blemishes...

There came a soft tapping at the door, and Rowan gently called, "Mr C? Are you awake? It's six-thirty."

I opened the door. Rowan stood awkwardly at the very threshold, as if he'd pressed himself up against the door. His face was only inches away from mine. We both took an abrupt step back. At that point, I noticed he was fully dressed and ready to go.

"Thanks," I said. "I just woke up."

Looking over my shoulder in surprise, he thanked me for making the bed. "It's so perfect, it almost looks like you haven't slept in it," he commented.

"I don't think I got much sleep last night," I told him. "I'm not sure how much I slept and how much I just blanked out."

"Okay," he said. "I'm done in the bathroom. It's all yours." Blushing slightly, he pushed some balled-up cloth into my hands. "These are yours, too — it's your... intimates. Could you, um, put 'em in, um—" he gestured with his chin toward the bed. "Femke is here."

I glanced around the empty room behind him, puzzled. "Where is she? In the bathroom?"

"No, no — she's down in the street — across the street, getting breakfast."

"She's a seriously early bird, isn't she," I observed.

"You don't know the half of it," he replied. "She stopped at an all-night pharmacy and got you a few things." He handed me a plastic shopping bag. Inside was a toothbrush and toothpaste, a deodorant stick, a hairbrush, a box of tampons and one of pads.

"That's nice of her," I said.

"She said there are other things you need, but she wouldn't know which kinds until she met you."

"Huh," was all I could manage to say. I wondered in a vague way about Femke's motive for helping me, but before I could formulate my uncertainty into a question, Rowan gently pushed me toward the bathroom.

When I emerged ten minutes later, the table was spread with breakfast items.

"Hallo, Merope," Femke called. "Help yourself to breakfast here. Coffee?"

"Hi, Femke. Nice to meet you. Yes, coffee, please." She poured me a cup. I took an experimental sip of it: black, unsweetened.

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "That might be the best coffee I've ever tasted!"

"You Americans are so enthusiastic," Femke observed. "It makes me doubt your sincerity."

I was a little taken aback by her abrupt comment. Rowan, seeing my reaction, explained, "Dutch people are very... forthright."

"Forthright?" Femke repeated. "We would say frank."

"Anyway—" I broke in, "the coffee is good."

"Good, I'm glad," Femke acknowledged with a nod. She looked me up and down, and said, "I see we're about the same size. I'm sure I have something you can wear to this center of yours."

"Oh, no," Rowan said. "She needs to go in the clothes she wore when she was switched."

"Why?"

Rowan made a vague, helpless gesture. "I don't know why. They take the clothes you were wearing and analyze them."

"Analyze how?" Femke scoffed, smiling. "Do they think these clothes are soaked in moonbeams and sprinkled with fairy dust?"

I laughed. "She's right. What on earth could they possibly find?"

Rowan spread his arms, palms up, in surrender. "Why are you asking me? I haven't the slightest idea."

"Well, then, we'll have to bring something decent for her to wear when she leaves," Femke declared.

"We?" Rowan echoed. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," Femke replied, decisively. "*I* am going... but you are not. You have to work."

"I... don't... know...," Rowan said, drawing the words out.

"I do," Femke replied.

"How will you... get... there?" Rowan asked her, again drawing his words out slowly. "Will... you... take... the... ah—" As each word emerged from his mouth, Femke's eyebrows incrementally rose. I had no idea what he was getting at.

"I'll take *your* car," she declared. "The blue Golf." She shook her head. "Such a funny name for a car."

"And what will I do?" he demanded.

"Come on, Mr Big-City Detective," she quipped. "It's not such a great mystery. You know what you'll do."

He sat glumly for a few moments, then shrugged and said, "Okay."

I shook my head. "Should I ask?" I ventured. "I have no idea what you two are talking about."

In one voice, they replied, "No."

Femke glanced at the clock. She asked Rowan for the ticket from the dry cleaners, and left to pick up my clothes.

Rowan and I sat in silence. He cocked his head to listen to the apartment door slam, then the door at the top of the stairs, then the door at the bottom of the stairs, and finally the twin booms of the doors at the building's entrance.

"She's um, she's very nice," I said. "I like her."

Rowan laughed. "She's great. She does take some getting used to. But try to not take anything she says personally. It's cultural."

"What do you mean?"

"Dutch people shoot from the hip," he explained. "Forthright is the perfect word: it means direct, outspoken."

"And she's the one taking me to the center. Not you."

"She insisted on it. She's very curious about the whole Switcher phenomenon. She can't wait to talk to you about it. And... this... gender swap makes her curious as hell. Get ready for a thousand probing questions."

"Okay," I said.

"Another thing — she *really* wants to help you adapt to being female. In part it's because she's generous and helpful. It's also because she wants to observe the process."

"Well... honestly, I wouldn't mind the help... I think I can put up with the scrutiny." I shrugged and concluded, "I guess it's a fair trade off."

Rowan seemed relieved. "I'm glad to hear you say that," he said. Then, after a quick glance at the door, he leaned forward and sotto voce told me, "She doesn't know about the fake IDs or the money, and I don't think it's a good idea to mention any of that to her. At least not until you come back from the center."

He leaned back and took a sip of coffee. "It's probably fine to tell her about the cylinders, though. She might have an idea what they are. Who knows?"

Minutes later Femke arrived with my freshly cleaned clothes. She stripped off the plastic and handed them to me. "Get you going," she said. "If you need help knowing which end is up, call me."

When I emerged, dressed in what I thought of as my "Merope outfit," Femke nodded in approval.

"A very professional look," she commented. "You look like a bank worker."

"Actually, my son—" I began.

"At the center, they will think you're in charge," she joked. "You should try giving them some commands, to see whether they obey." She turned to Rowan. "What agency could she come from?"

"Homeland Security," he replied. "But not really — If she says it, they'd want to see her ID."

"Hmm, ja," Femke acknowledged. Then she looked up and clapped her hands once. "Wheels up!" she exclaimed. After giving Rowan a poke in the chest, she asked, "Is the car all gassed up?"

"Uh... I don't know," he responded slowly.

"I only heard the last word," she told him. "You answered no." She drew it out, the way he had. He handed her a set of keys. She set her own keys on the kitchen counter. They kissed.

Femke looked at me. "We are now boarding first-class passengers," she declared. "Do you have all your carry-on items?"

"Oh, the bag!" I exclaimed, picking up Merope's purse and looking inside. "I almost forgot!"

Femke said something that sounded like "skeet op!" and was out the door. I ran after her.

We exited through a back door to a parking lot behind the building, where Rowan's blue VW Golf was parked.

Femke gave a tsk and a sigh. "So dirty!" she exclaimed. "Does he never clean this car?"

We climbed in, and Femke took off with a roar.

 

---

 

Neither of us spoke until Femke threaded our way onto I-60.

"It's tricky getting on the highway from this part of town," I observed.

Femke grunted in assent. Then, after a quick glance at me, she said, "You know, I'm very excited to meet you. I've never known anyone who was switched before. Did you?"

"No, I never. In fact, I was beginning to believe the whole thing was just made up. An urban legend or conspiracy theory. If it wasn't for the PSAs—"

Femke interrupted with a growl. "When I was at university," she said, "One of the teachers put together a seminar. She called it The Psychology of the Switched. I found the title quite evocative, so I was the first to sign up."

"Was it interesting?" I queried.

"I never had a chance to find out!" she exclaimed. "There were two knuckleheads who didn't even sign up. They simply arrived. They turned the first session into an argument about whether the Switcher was real, or only an urban legend." She shook her head. "No one wanted to talk about *that*, but these two had a very provoking manner. They dominated the discussion, talking over people, interrupting..." Femke pulled into the left lane and passed a slow-moving panel truck.

"The second day, the teacher tried to get ahead of the troublemakers, but they changed tactics and this time they argued that the Switcher's victims weren't victims at all. They were mentally ill, or malingering."

"Oh!" I exclaimed. I felt my spirit deflate.

"I grew so angry that I left. The teacher was upset about her own inability to control the class, and she canceled the remainder of the seminar."

"That's too bad!" I agreed. "I hate that dog-in-the-manger attitude."

She turned and stared at me. At first I wondered whether she understood what I meant by a "dog in the manger." Then I worried that she'd taken her eyes off the road for so long! I was about to cry out, when she turned her gaze forward, focused on the road ahead.

"In any case," Femke continued, "Here we are! In a perfect position to give those two imbeciles a hard knock on the head. We're far past urban myths, conspiracy theories, and mental illness. You are the real item! Rowan recognizes the old Anson Charpont in you. I'm sure we'll find a new Anson Charpont at the processing center."

The idea of seeing someone else lumbering around in my body struck me forcibly. "I hadn't thought about that," I muttered weakly. "I mean, I saw the Switcher walk off in my body, but to see some poor stranger stuck in there..." I shook my head.

"You're not experiencing nostalgia for your old body, then?" Femke asked with an ironic smile.

"No," I said. "I don't miss being old. I don't miss feeling old. I don't miss being overweight. I feel... apologetic to whoever got stuck being me, but I wouldn't go back if I could." After a pause I added, "And I don't miss..." I sighed. "Well, let's just say that my old life was getting very... cluttered with emotional complications."

"Now you feel you're given a clean slate," Femke suggested.

"Yes, I do feel that," I agreed.

"Enjoy it while you can," Femke advised.

Femke fell silent as we approached the complicated intersection where I-60 meets both Route 47 and the Pelham Crossway. Drivers who didn't play close attention would end up going miles in the wrong direction before they'd be able to turn around and try again. At worst, you could circle through every loop in the overlaid cloverleafs several times until you found your one way out. I'm speaking from personal experience. The first argument Cleo and I ever had was fought in those cloverleafs. When Cleo realized we were literally driving in circles -- and not only that, but also driving through circles on top of circles, she began shouting at me. I got so flustered that I almost missed our exit. We nearly ended up taking a third trip around when I managed to make an abrupt and dangerous exit."

"What do you mean by that?" Femke asked with a laugh.

"I was so nervous, I cut across two lanes of traffic," I explained. "Two big SUVs narrowly missed hitting us."

Femke shook her head and gave a tsk with her tongue.

I almost began perspiring, picturing the massive black cars bearing down on us. And Cleo... she managed to be both apoplectic and screaming at the same time. The other drivers leaned heavily on the horns and seemed to accelerate toward me! It was not one of my finest moments.

Femke, on the other hand, wisely and cleverly slipped onto a two-lane access road that ran parallel to I-60 and avoided the entire circular confusion.

"If I had known about this shortcut," I told her, half-joking, "My marriage might have fared much better than it did."

"What a strange thing to say," Femke replied. "If your wife left you because the state of the roads, you are well shot of her." She glanced at me. "Did I use that phrase correctly? Do you say well shot of her?"

"Yes," I said. "You said it perfectly."

"When I came here, to this country," she said, "I thought my English was at a very high level. And yet, every day I hear a word or phrase that is entirely new to me."

I gave a soft grunt by way of reply.

Once we were were past the cloverleafs and back on the straightaway, she commented, "I'm surprised that you've taken this drastic change so calmly. Do you know The Three Christs of Ypsilanti?"

"I don't think so. Is it a film?"

"Oh—" she was struck by the question. "I don't know. Maybe. It's a weird little book, in any case. I've never been able to finish it. Anyway, the author has a theory: he says that if you deny someone's identity, they go into a panic state, and if it continues, they can suffer psychological harm. But you—" she said, gesturing with a smile at me, taking her eyes off the road again, "—you seem perfectly calm. Serene, even. I'd think most people would break down and cry. Or fall into a fit of screaming, I don't know."

"What makes you think I'm calm?" I asked her, looking directly into her eyes. Her face registered a small shock. Then she returned her gaze to the road ahead.

"Femke," I told her, after a moment's reflection, "I don't mind your asking me questions. It's helpful, actually. But please don't try to goad me into a breakdown."

"Understood," she replied. "I'm sorry — that wasn't my intention."

"I might appear calm on the outside, but inside, I'm a nervous wreck. I'm scared to death and angry at — everything! — and I have never felt more... helpless." The last word, helpless, nearly choked me on the way out. I looked away from Femke and tried taking slow and even breaths. It seemed to help. Somewhat. The unsettling undercurrent was still there.

"Okay," she said, and reached out to grip my hand in hers. She held it for several moments, before letting go and returning her hand to the steering wheel.

After a mile or so of silence, she said, "Oh, listen, I almost forgot. At the center, try not to mention that Rowan is a policeman, okay?"

"Sure," I agreed. "Why is that?"

Femke laughed. She did a fair imitation of Rowan's voice and manner: "The thing is, if these processing-center people realize I'm a cop, they're going to want my badge number. They're going to want me to *write* a report, and *file* the report, and *send* the report."

"That's a pretty good impression of him," I complimented her.

She continued in his voice and made a facial expression that read long-suffering. "Do you know the one thing cops hate more than anything else?"

I laughed out loud. "I'll go out on a limb and say, writing reports?"

"Bingo!" she exclaimed, and the two of us laughed.

"So, Miss Merope — what kind of work did your Mr Charpont do, before he retired?"

"I, uh, he was a COBOL programmer."

"Cool. Now tell me: what's a cobol? What does a cobol do, when it's at home?"

"COBOL is a programming language," I told her. "It's one of the oldest. It's mainly used in business applications."

"Mmm," she said. "So it's like Python? My younger brother is learning Python."

"Is he now," I commented drily.

"Yep." Femke nodded for emphasis. "Anyway, the point is, if it is so old, do people still need their cobols programmed? Are they still being manufactured? Can you still make a living at it?"

"I should think so. Yes, definitely."

"Then you ought to be all set."

"Mmm. Maybe. I don't know whether employers would recognize my work experience as Anson. I'll ask at the processing center."

 

---

 

Most of the drive after that was spectacular. I mean, the highway was flanked with hills, and the hills were covered in trees. There were few evergreens; most of the trees were in the midst of explosive color changes. It was incongruous, being surrounded by all that incredible natural beauty while I was all torn up inside. I did my best to not let my inner turmoil ruin the scene around me. I felt my distress, my confusion, my pain. I couldn't make it go away, but at the same time, I couldn't help but drink in the kaleidoscope of autumn changes.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Femke said. "I've seen trees change color, but never on this scale."

"Right," I murmured.

"I hope we can find a gas station before we get to this place," Femke commented, in a bit of a non sequitur. "Rowan never seems to put gas in his car. Instead, he lends it to me."

"Do we have enough to make it there?" I asked.

"We can only hope," she replied. "He also never manages to wash his car, either. Can you understand? All it takes is to drive through a car wash, and this also I have to do for him."

As it turned out, we did have enough gas. The red NEED GAS icon didn't come on until we took the exit for the processing center. We drove about three miles before the GPS told us "You've arrived at your destination."

Femke kept going. "There's a gas station up ahead, and a Dunkin' Donuts. I think it's a good idea to take a break and eat something before we turn you over to the authorities."

"That sounds like a dismal prospect," I commented. "I mean the part about being turned over to the authorities." She shrugged.

Femke was right about the break. It was good to stretch my legs while we filled the tank with gas, and I felt much better about the world and my future prospects after eating a Texas Toast with cheese and bacon, along with a side of hash browns. Even the coffee tasted good.

"Ready now?" Femke asked me, and I nodded.

We drove back down the street to the address Rowan had copied off the government website.

"Where the hell are we?" I asked. "This can't be the right place."

The neighborhood was industrial. There were storage places, ancient factories with faded signs, a car wash that itself needed cleaning, carpet and tile stores, and a huge showroom full of inexpensive, unattractive, cheap-looking furniture. There was a handful of narrow houses in the mix: old, in need of paint, and seemingly uninhabited, with overgrown lawns and twisted, gnarly trees in the yard. One side of the street was bereft of sidewalks; the other side — our side — had sidewalks here and there, where the concrete hadn't broken, sunk into the ground, or been subsumed by moss and grass.

The processing center — if we were to believe that's what it was — looked like nothing more or less than a post office built in the sixties: it had that flat, boxy, angular design. One story, glass front, tan-color brick. There was no signage, and no sign of life inside.

Behind the building we found an empty parking lot, badly in need of repaving. The asphalt was cracked long ago by thick tree roots. Grass and tall, weedy saplings had broken through. Femke parked close behind the building, out of sight from the street.

Alarmed, I told her, "Femke, please don't leave me here! I mean, what if this isn't the place?"

She gave me an odd, almost amused, look. "I'm not going to leave you, zusje." She stepped out of the car, and opened the back door so she could retrieve her backpack. "Come on!" she coaxed. "We didn't come all this way for you to sit in the car!"

I stepped out of the car and walked around the tail to join her. "Wait!" she exclaimed. "Do you have a pen?"

I fished Merope's expensive pen from her bag and handed it to Femke, who bit on the cap and pulled it open. She grabbed my left arm and twisted it. As she wrote on my forearm, she said, "Here is my telephone number, just in case. You won't need it, but... just in case." The weird twisting she did before writing on me was so the number would read rightside-up for me. She closed the pen and dropped it back in my bag.

The two of us headed toward the street and approached the building's front door. Femke leaned on the doorbell. "Did you hear anything?" she asked. I shook my head. She pushed it again, long and hard. Still, no sound from within.

We waited maybe half a minute, then she rang again.

"I don't think this is the right place," I repeated.

"This is the address," she insisted. "Why don't we give them a call?" She held out her hand for my phone and dialed a number she read off the palm of her hand. After a brief conversation, she hung up.

"Someone's coming," she informed me. Then, "Oh, try to memorize my number, in case they have some crazy way of erasing it off you."

Whatever, I told myself.

Less than a minute later, a dude arrived. We saw him appear from somewhere inside the building, a shadow growing as he approached the front door. When we were able to make out his features, we saw his big toothy grin, his mass of towsled, light brown hair. When he opened the door, a strong odor of marijuana emerged, like a cloud that enveloped and followed him. He wore dark sunglasses, orange crocs, khaki pants, and a light blue polo shirt. His general vibe was rumpled. Around his neck hung an identification card on a white lanyard. The card was turned so we could only see the back.

"Can I help you?" he asked, in a tone that made it sound like a joke. His manner was one you'd expect from a California beach bum, though we were a long way from any kind of surf or ocean. This man was a slacker, a dude. He had nothing to prove to anyone. Apparently, his job allowed him to remain stoned all day long.

Femke gestured in my direction. "I've got a Switcher victim for you," she said.

The dude glanced at me, but only for a moment. His gaze returned and fixed on Femke. Slowly, thoughtfully, he raised his hand and shook his index finger at her. Ben je Nederlands? he asked.

She frowned, and almost scoffing, answered, Ja, en jij?

He guffawed loudly. "Naw!" he crowed. "I kicked around a few years in Amsterdam. Did my best to learn the language... a little of the language. I know enough to get around." He chuckled and shuffled his feet, immensely pleased with himself. Then, nodding, spoke to Femke. "I picked up on your accent. Anyways, are you a Switcher victim, too?"

"No," she replied. "I'm just looking out for my friend, here."

He nodded, taking this in. I should point out that the three of us were still standing in the doorway.

"We don't get many walk-ins," he informed us.

"Okay," I said, just to try to insert myself in the conversation, if you could call it that.

As if he had all the time in the world, the man took a deep breath, and gave an appreciative look at the wizened, ugly tree across the street. He raised his eyes to the sky. "Nice day," he said. "Nice day to be outside."

I waited a few moments, while he scanned the sky and the landscape. He took some extravagantly deep breaths as though breathing itself was a new, exciting, and unaccustomed activity. At last I asked him, "Can I go inside?"

He blinked his eyes a few times, nodding, showing the merest trace of a smile. "Of course you can! Your wish is my command." Holding the door open, he pressed himself to the side and let me enter. "Knock yourself out," he said.

When Femke tried to follow, the man held up his hand to stop her. "Whoa, whoa, hold on there! Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm staying with her," Femke told him, while pointing at me.

"No, no, that isn't how it works."

"If that isn't how it works," she replied, "I don't think you can say it's working."

He straightened up and blinked. Femke continued, "I am the closest thing she has to a family right now."

"But you can't—" he protested, albeit weakly.

"Why not? Why not? I have my own food—" she hefted her backpack to illustrate her point. "I can sleep in a chair. I'm not asking you to provide me with anything. Anything at all. I'm going to wait here until you release her."

"That could be days!"

"I'm ready for days!" Again she hefted her backpack. "I have food and drink for days. I have books to occupy my mind."

He spluttered and searched his mind for objections. "I— I— I'm not supposed to let you in," he protested.

"Then I'll sleep in my car," she said, with a shrug. To me, she said, "You know where to find me. I'll be parked out back."

"I can't let you do that!" the man exclaimed.

"You can't stop me from doing that," she informed him.

He scoffed in disbelief. He shook his head. Three times he began to speak, but couldn't get a word out.

At last he said, "Fine. Follow me, the pair of you."

We walked into the center of the building.

"Are we the only ones here?" I asked.

"No," he replied, laconically. He seemed surprised -- or amused? -- by the question. "There's a number of folks here at the moment: a handful are Switcher victims; the rest are staff."

"Is Anson Charpont here? One of the victims?"

He shook his head. He must have missed the second part of my question, because he said, "Name doesn't ring a bell, so I guess he doesn't work here. Maybe he's assigned to another processing center? I wouldn't know. Is he a friend of yours?"

I opened my mouth to correct his misunderstanding, but stopped myself. If my old name wasn't familiar to him, that was all I needed to know.

"I've got a question," Femke said, frowning. "If there are other people here, why don't we hear them?"

"Ah, yeah. There's a good reason for that: most of the building's underground. This used to be a secret government bunker. Bomb shelter. The Cold War, you know?"

"Everyone is downstairs?" Femke asked, confirming.

"Yup!"

"Then why are we standing here?" she demanded.

"Right you are!" he cackled, pointing at her for emphasis. "We can't hang around here all day! Come on, ladies, let's get our switcheroonie checked in." He shuffled around a corner to an elevator, and hit the DOWN button. There was no other button. The door slowly opened, creaking and groaning like an old man. The dude put his hand on the door to keep it from closing, and said after a thoughtful pause, "You know, I think you're the first walk-in ever. It's gotta be some kind of record."

I pushed past him into the elevator. If Femke hadn't spoken up, how long would he have had us stand there?

The elevator didn't have buttons for selecting a floor. It also didn't have an indicator to tell you which floor you were on. There was only a numeric keypad. With great deliberation, the dude punched four numbers, then the hash mark. The pad beeped three times and the door slowly, arthritically, closed.

He looked up as the elevator rattled, shook, and slowly descended. "This old gal might have been state of the art back in the fifties," he observed. "Or was it the sixties? Anyway, it doesn't break down that often, so we should be safe."

The trip lasted forever, it seemed, and once it stopped, it seemed to think for a while before deciding to open the door. Once it did open, I spotted a metal plate attached to the elevator doorframe that read L7.

"Heh," I commented, laughing, pointing — I couldn't resist. Half-singing, I chanted, "Hey! Don't take no chance! Let's not be L-7..."

Breaking out one of his widest grins, the dude replied, "Come and learn to dance!" and the two of us crooned in unison, "Woolly Bully!" He finished the musical phrase by softly saying, "Right." Femke looked at us as if we'd lost our minds.

"You're okay!" he said to me. "You're the absolute first to catch that, Miss Walk-in! Can you believe that? Bonus points if you can name the band."

"Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs," I replied, triumphant. "Who else could it be?"

"Ding ding ding!" he laughed. "We have a winner!"

Our conversation and laughter drew a scowling man from a nearby office. He emerged like a bear from his cave, unhappy at being woken from his long winter slumber. "What the hell's going on out here?" he demanded. He gestured a shaking finger at me and Femke. "Who are these people? There's no one on the schedule."

"I got a Switcher victim here," the man said, gesturing toward me. "Our very first walk-in!"

His scowl deepened. The grumpy man took a few steps toward me. He, like the dude, was also dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, but his shirt was canary yellow and freshly pressed. His shoes were slip-on Skechers. He was no slacker. He was more of a bureaucrat. "Walk-in? What do you mean, walk-in?"

"A friend of hers dropped her off. This friend, right here."

"I don't like the sound of that!" he told my escort. To me, he said brusquely, "Get in there," with a jerk of his head, indicated his office.

My new-found friend shrugged apologetically, said, "Good luck, sister. I'll catch up with you later." I glanced back at Femke as I headed for the office. The dude nodded to her and said, "This way."

"Where's she going?" the grumpy man demanded.

"Ladies room," the dude lied.

"After that, she's out of here," the grump commanded, as he turned his back.

"Yes, sir!" the dude replied. To me, he shook his head no, pointed at Femke, then pointed down, and mouthed the words, She's staying here.

 

Merope, Maybe : 5 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted."
— Mahatma Gandhi

---

 

I entered the grumpy man's office. Immediately I felt sorry for the guy. What a terrible place to work! I'd be testy, too, if I had to spend all day there. It wasn't exactly small; it was an adequate size, but just barely. Not cramped enough to complain about, but not large enough to be comfortable. If only the ceiling was slightly higher... if only a few square feet of floor space could somehow be added, it wouldn't seem so... confining... not quite a prison cell.

It screamed basement. It verged on claustrophobic.

Maybe you get used to it, I told myself, but a look at man's face told me that you don't. Some things you never get used to. They wear on you, wear you down.

Naturally, there were no windows — at seven levels underground, no one could expect a decent window, but that, along with the dull, military green of the walls and ceiling, had to feel oppressive after eight hours, day after day.

The floor itself was a fifties throwback: linoleum tiles, alternating green and dull white.

The only positive I could find was the air: the circulation was surprisingly good. The atmosphere seemed almost fresh, not stale at all. It was sterile, though: there was no scent, no trace of any smell, good or bad.

As far as decor, the room had two tall narrow bookshelves, crammed with binders.

He had no pictures on the walls. No photos or knickknacks on his desk.

The desk stood more or less in the center of the room: a heavy old metal thing, painted green, with a pale linoleum top, chipped in one corner. Probably military surplus.

An honest-to-god inbox sat on the corner of his desk: it was a small, black wire basket with the word IN written on a white 3x5 card and taped to the front of the basket. Half a dozen papers lay face down, waiting to be read.

There were two chairs behind the desk and one in front, which seemed odd. I would have expected the opposite. In any case, I sat down in front of the desk, with my back to the door. I was sure I sat in front because a huge old computer monitor occupied the far end of the desk and its screen faced away from me. I wondered whether the system was old enough to only display green characters on a black background. I felt it might.

The grumpy man followed me in, walked past his desk and sat in the chair closer to the computer screen.

"Have a seat," he said in a tone of dry irony.

"Thanks," I replied. He didn't react or look up. He only sniffed and gave his chin a quick tug.

Then he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and made an elaborate show of cracking his knuckles and warming up his fingers as if he were a concert pianist. He straightened up in his chair and pulled his keyboard closer to himself.

I took a breath and was about to start talking, but he raised his hands and gently pumped the brakes. "Wait."

After he'd typed for half a minute, he looked up at me and said, "I know that you want to give your narration, but first I need to get a few facts." He patted a piece of paper on his desk, and continued, "Then I'll go over a few things with you, about how all this works and what you can expect. Okay?"

"I guess— I mean, yes, that fine. But what do you mean by narration?"

"That's what we call your *story*, your version of the switcher incident. You'll get to tell that in full, and we'll record it, but we've found it's easier if I ask you some questions first." He hit the TAB key and poised his hands above the keyboard. "So... date and time of incident."

"Let's see... it was yesterday — I don't know exactly — let's say it was just after one."

He dropped his hands into his lap. Clearly, my answer wouldn't do. "Is that one AM or one PM?"

"PM. No, AM. Sorry, it was after noon, so it's PM. PM. I'm just a little flustered."

"Aren't we all," he commented sardonically. "How many minutes after one? Five? Ten? Fifteen?"

"Oh, it had to be 1:15? 1:20?"

"Pick one," he told me.

"1:20."

"Location of incident?"

"It was in Upper Harmish, on the river walkway. At a point called the Pinch." He raised his eyes, giving me a baleful look. "It's well-known locally," I explained.

He huffed as he typed, as if the work weighed heavily upon him. It looked like he had to click with his mouse before adding a note about the Pinch, and that seemed quite a lot to ask.

"Witnesses?"

I blinked. He said, "That's a yes/no question."

"No."

"Did the switch appear intentional on the Switcher's part? Yes/no."

"Intentional? No."

"Prior to the switch, did the Switcher appear to know your identity? Yes/no."

"No."

He maneuvered his mouse and clicked on a SAVE button.

"Now," he said, with a grim smile, as though we'd come to a crossroads, "Who were you before the switch? That is to say, what was your name?"

"Anson Charpont," I replied, and spelled it for him. He took Anson's particulars: date and place of birth, social security number, address, wife's name and contact information.

"Okay," he said, "here we go." He visibly tensed. I think he actually held his breath. He hit the ENTER key and waited. A soft ding! sounded. The man actually smiled. "Right. We've verified that there is such a person." He nodded his head several times, seemingly grateful that we'd dodged that bullet (whatever the bullet was). He explained, "If that didn't verify... Well, let's just say it would have been a major headache."

He took another breath and nervously squeezed the fingers of one hand with the other. He moved his mouse and clicked on a second button. This time, the response came right away: a low, rasping buzz. "Oh, shit," he whispered.

"I'm going to try again," he said softly. He clicked. Once again, the computer responded with an ugly buzz.

The man had a expression of— of what? An expression of dismay. He couldn't look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he said. He spoke in an undertone, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "We have this new... protocol..." He ran his hand across his eyes and shifted uneasily in his chair. Then he stood, pushed his char away from himself, said, "Wait here," and walked out of the room.

I listened to his footsteps in the hall, and when it as clearly safe, I leaned forward to look at his screen. It told me nothing. His screen was locked, and all I could see was the old starfield screensaver.

He quickly returned with one of his co-workers, a man dressed almost identically (khakis and yellow polo shirt). This man, by contrast, had a friendly, open expression. He looked like the kind of guy who plays a lot of squash at a country club: blond hair, lightly tanned skin, trim, fit, but not exactly athletic. I liked him right away.

He and the grumpy fellow took the two seats behind the desk. The new man reached out to shake my hand. "Hello, my name is Paul, and this guy here is Matt, in case he hasn't introduced himself." He smiled as he said it, as though it was a joke shared between him and me. Matt, the grump, didn't smile. He wouldn't meet my gaze.

"I'm Merope," I told him, feeling that his polite introduction deserved a reply.

"Are you, now," he said.

"I guess so," I replied. "If you let me?"

He let my half-joking comment blow by. "Okay, now, I've got a funny little question to ask you, if you don't mind. Do you know what identity the Switcher was using before this one, the one you're in?"

"I don't follow," I told him.

"Okay. That's fine," he said. "It was a stretch. It would have helped a great deal if you did, you know, recognize him or know him somehow... but anyway, that's fine. Now, look here." He took a blank piece of paper and a pen. On the paper he drew four stick figures in a line from left to right. The second stick figure was a woman — she had a skirt and two curly hairs, one on each side of her head. At the top of the page, above the figures, he wrote the word BEFORE and at the bottom, below the figures, he wrote AFTER.

"Before the Switcher came along, there were four people. Four ordinary people, okay? This one—" he pointed to the woman "—was Merope, inside and out." He wrote Merope above her head. "This guy here standing next to her, was Anson, right? Inside and out." He wrote Anson above the third figure's head. "Here and here—" he pointed to the two figures on either end "—we have two unknowns." He wrote JD1 over the figure on the far left and JD2 over the figure on the far right.

"Still with me?" he asked. I opened my mouth to ask what JD stood for, but he saw it coming and answered, "John Doe One and John Doe Two. We have two unknowns, not necessarily male."

"Right," I agreed.

"The Switcher comes along, and what does he do? First he enters John Doe number one, then Merope, then Anson, then John Doe number two, right?"

"Right."

"And the four of you, all four of you, shift over one. At this point, John Doe number one has Merope inside." He wrote Merope under the first figure. "Merope has Anson inside — that's you, now." He wrote Anson under the female stick figure. "Anson now has John Doe number two inside of him..." He wrote JD2 under Anson's stick figure, "And John Doe number two has... well, let's say the Switcher is still there." He wrote Switcher under the last figure.

"See? The Switcher moves this way—" he drew arrows from one figure to the next, going left to right "— but the victims all shift one person over in the opposite direction. Do you follow me?" With his finger, he showed the movement of identities, of Merope into JD1, Anson into Merope, JD2 into Anson.

"It would be nice if we knew who these two people are," he told me, pointing to the two John Does.

"I wish I could help you with that," I told him.

"Because, you see, it's like a daisy chain, isn't it. The chain started when the Switcher first appeared, and it will keep on going, adding link upon link, until he dies, I suppose."

"It's kind of scary," I agreed.

"Right. Scary. Okay. But do you know what's really amazing about this chain? We know — we have documented — virtually every single link! From the very beginning! I'll admit, we don't have all of them. There's always a little lag with the newest... victims, links. Of course, there are some gaps, some notable gaps, but we know the identities, old and new, of more than 90% of the Switcher's victims."

"That's remarkable," I said.

"And you know, each link supports the two nearest links. For instance, this John Doe would say, I'm not John Doe, I'm Merope! and when we find Merope, Merope says, I'm not Merope, I'm Anson! And then Anson says, I'm not Anson, I'm John Doe number two!"

"I get it," I told him. He was becoming tedious.

"I don't mean to keep harping on this," he continued, gesturing to the stick figures, "but the chain, as you can imagine, is very long. I don't remember how long, but whew! it's long. For today, though, we're going to narrow our focus. We're going to concentrate on these three or four people right here—" he tapped on the picture of the four stick figures. "Do you know why? It's because right here, the chain is broken." He moved his hand vaguely to the left of the female stick figure. "We don't know who the Switcher was back here, or before this point. We'd like to link this to the established chain, to the victims we already know." He gestured vaguely to the right of Anson. "We also don't know who the Switcher is — or was — on this side, either. We don't know whether he's moved on."

He smiled and looked me in the eyes, and in that moment I didn't like him any more.

He said, "It's pretty simple. There are links missing from the chain. We don't have John Doe number one, and we don't have Anson Charpont. All we have is you."

"And how is that a problem?" I asked, my mouth suddenly gone dry.

Paul, who I thought was the nice one, settled back in his chair. Matt, who I thought was the grumpy one, made steeples of his fingertips and studiously fixed his gaze on his hands. He hadn't given me so much as a glance throughout Paul's harangue. It struck me that he didn't enjoy Paul's recitation at all.

A woman suddenly entered the office, carrying three bottles of water. She set one in front of me and one each in front of the two men. "Would you rather have coffee?" she asked me.

"No, water's fine, thanks," I croaked. I twisted off the lid with a loud crack! and took a long sip. Somehow I found myself as thirsty and dry as if I'd just crawled out of the desert. The woman smiled at me and left the room.

Paul waited until I finished drinking before he continued.

"We're very open-minded people here. We've all been doing this job for a good long while, handling the Switcher's victims. Things have changed over the years, especially since the public has become more aware. At first we made some tweaks... we adapted to accommodate new wrinkles. Lately we've had to add a whole new protocol, and that's what I'm here to talk to you about. See, in the beginning, when we first started doing this, nobody knew anything about being switched. Nobody. So when a person came in here, saying they weren't who they appeared to be, we had to believe them. Because, why would anybody claim such a thing?"

Paul cracked open his bottle of water and took a small sip. Then he went on. "In the last few years, as the general public learned about the Switcher, we started seeing a different kind of person here. They'd show up, come in here, and tell us they'd been switched. Only problem was — they weren't. They *claimed* they'd met the Switcher, but they really hadn't. It wasn't too hard to tell, though. For one thing, the real victims tended to freak out... to cry or shake or... well, a few even threw up. But the fakers? For the most part, they were dead calm."

He looked me in the eyes and smiled. Calm, like you, was the obvious message.

"Believe me, I'm far from calm on the inside," I told him. There was a hard edge to my voice. I don't like being called a liar.

He raised his eyebrows and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm not saying anything!" he protested mildly. "I'm just giving you some background, so you understand where I'm coming from."

I didn't answer. I sat there and swallowed my anger. He could probably see the flames dancing behind my eyes, but I didn't care.

I never should have come here, I told myself.

"With that in mind, I'd like to ask you, Merope, why do you think someone would do that? Why would anyone lie and pretend to be a victim of the Switcher?"

"That's not what I'm doing," I countered in as level a tone as I could manage.

"Again, I didn't say you were! I'm just asking you a simple question. Just use your imagination, just a little bit. Humor me. Why do you think a person might pretend to be a Switcher victim?" When I didn't answer, he added in a coaxing tone, "Come on, try."

Matt pressed his lips more tightly together and continued to study his fingertips.

"Well," I said, thinking out loud, "Maybe they want attention. Or maybe they're bored, or curious about the process. Maybe they think you'll give them a brand new life, and they'd like to explore that option."

"Those are pretty good guesses. Anything else come to mind?"

I took a breath, and after a moment suggested, "Maybe... they want to escape from poverty or abuse?"

"Possibly. You're getting warmer. There's another reason; a big reason, and one that concerns us — concerns our government greatly. I'm surprised you haven't thought of it."

I shook my head and shrugged. So he leaned forward and gave the answer he'd been looking for.

"Fraud," he said. "Purposes of fraud. We've seen people who falsely claim they were switched because they want to slide out from under their debt, or because they don't want to face the consequences of their crimes. They come here because they want a get out of jail free card."

Keeping my gaze steady, I continued to lock my eyes on his. My jaw tightened, and in that moment one of Anson's habits kicked in. Maybe ten years ago, as Anson, I'd cracked one of my molars by clenching my jaw. Since then, I trained myself and developed a reflex. When my jaw tensed, I'd open it slightly and try to relax.

That in itself was striking. Inside, I was still Anson. I carried that habit over to my new body. Yes — this whippersnapper (Paul) thought he was talking to a thirty-something who'd probably broken the law. Instead, he was talking to an older man, a man with more years, more life experience than the smug frat boy facing me. I wasn't going to waste my breath defending myself to him. The facts were what they were; the facts would bear me out. I held my ground.

"Because of the number of people seeking our help for the purpose of committing fraud," Paul went on, "the government is cracking down. Obviously, we are the first line of defense against it."

How nice for you, I said mentally, in a tone heavy with irony.

"You might wonder," he said, "whether someone could be found guilty of fraud simply because they've come here and told a little lie." He paused for effect.

"Actually, I don't wonder that at all," I told him.

He cocked his head back. "I'm going to tell you anyway," he insisted. "Attempted fraud is a crime. It's as if a person gets arrested while they're trying to rob a bank. They didn't actually rob the place, but they're still guilty of the crime."

"There are some holes in your argument," I informed him. "You're talking as though someone who gives you a funny look can be arrested for picking your pocket."

He shook his head. "That's quite a leap," he commented.

"My point exactly," I shot back.

"Okay, look," he said, sounding a bit irritated, "I don't think either of us want to draw out this discussion, and neither of us want to unnecessarily complicate our lives. So what I'm going to do is this: I'm going to offer your the opportunity to stop right here. If you decide to change your mind about being a Switcher victim — if you tell me that you've thought about it, and realize you were mistaken — we'll forget all about your visit. I'll walk you to the door, and we'll leave it there." I shook my head. He ignored it.

"You seem like a nice person," he continued, "and *I* don't want to deal with a pile of avoidable paperwork. So what do you say? Shall we stop here and unwind the whole thing?"

Before I could answer, he quickly added, "By the way: this is a one-time offer. I'm not going to make it again, and neither is anyone else in this place. It's now or never."

I didn't answer right away. I sat very still, unmoving. I focused on my breath. I felt my anger, alive, flowing in me like an underground river. Paul waited. I hung fire. I almost smiled.

After a few moments, a slight movement of his lips told me he was about to speak again, so I pre-empted him. "I'm a Switcher victim," I said. "I'm not a fraud."

"Okay," he declared, standing up, letting his chair scrape across the floor. "It's your funeral! Just remember, I gave you a chance!" He stepped away from the desk and headed for the door.

After he was gone, Matt — who up to now seemed a total grump — actually smiled at me.

"Nice work," he said in an undertone. I smiled back.

"Listen," I told him. "My family could tell you who I am. Can you let me talk to them?"

"No, sorry. We have a protocol—"

"Okay, I understand," I interrupted. "Can *you* talk to them?"

"Sure," he said. "That's actually part of the protocol. I assume you mean Anson's family."

"Yes." I recited Cleo's phone number. He dialed it immediately and listened. Looking up at me, he said, "Voice mail."

I heard the beep, and Matt said, "Hello, I'm calling from the Switcher Processing Center. We're trying to verify whether your husband was involved in a Switcher incident. Could you call us back at your earliest convenience?" He gave a phone number and told Cleo to ask for Matt.

"Thanks," I told him.

"No problem," he answered. "I'll tell you something: this isn't the greatest job in the world, but it was a hell of a lot better before all that fraud stuff started. Accusing people of crimes they haven't yet committed has no upside; it gets people upset, and hard feelings make everything more difficult."

I nodded, then told him, "Listen, anyway, though, the other two — the John Doe with Merope inside, and the Anson with the other John Doe inside — they'll turn up. I'm sure they will. I mean, why did Paul have to jump on me about them?"

"That's the protocol. Somehow the high muckety-mucks decided that Switcher victims would report or be detected within 24 hours of each other. You trigger the protocol because you switched a day ago, and neither Anson nor John Doe one have shown up."

"But they will," I assured him.

"Sure," he replied in a neutral tone that neither agreed nor disagreed. "It'll all work out. In the meantime, how do you feel about staying here in the center for two or three days, until one of them checks in?"

"I guess that's fine," I said slowly. For a moment my mind considered the effect on Rowan and Femke. Rowan would be fine. Femke could leave whenever she liked. So I nodded.

Matt smiled and nodded back.

Then my mind turned to my family. Honestly, Herman lived so wrapped up in his own life, he probably hadn't noticed my absence. I wondered, as I often had, whether he was alive enough to have a girlfriend... or boyfriend, although I don't think he was made that way. Was Herman similar to me? Was he a solitary type, with few friends or contacts outside of work?

And Cleo... if she was concerned, she'd soon return Matt's call. Maybe while I was sitting there?

"Alright," Matt said, interrupting my reverie, "let's get on with the intake process. Why don't you tell me how it happened?"

I went through the story, starting with my retirement. I almost got bogged down in my conflicts with Cleo, but I was able to move on to the moment that I left the house yesterday morning. Again, I nearly ran off in the weeds when I touched on the strange scone, but I managed to quickly recover, and moved on to my walk along the river. Matt hadn't heard of the Pinch (before I'd mentioned it earlier), and he let me go on for bit, describing it...

"Are you recording this?" I asked. "I noticed you're not taking any notes."

"It's being recorded," he assured me, and pointed to a camera lens, visible through a hole in one of the binders behind him. "There are other cameras and microphones in here as well." He pointed vaguely around the office.

Still, Matt was sitting there, listening to me. He let me go on, never interrupting or steering me back on track, until... I guess I got bogged down in the details. His patience with my level of irrelevant bits and pieces evaporated when I described seeing my phone bounce into the ivy. He shifted impatiently and asked, "Why are you telling me that?"

"Telling you what?"

"About the phone bouncing into the ivy!" He gave a shaking what gives? shrug. "How is that relevant?"

"It's relevant because I fished the phone out afterward," I told him, reaching into my bag and producing the phone. "Otherwise, the Switcher would have gone off with it." I held it up for him to see. He blinked a few times, then asked, "So... whose phone is that?"

"It's mine," I declared. "It's Anson's."

"Give it here," he said, making the gimmee gesture with his hand. He wrote "Anson Charpont phone" on a yellow post-it note, stuck the note on the phone, and dropped the phone into a plastic bag.

"Hey, I want that!" I exclaimed. "It's mine!"

"No, it's not," he informed me. "It belongs to Anson Charpont."

"But—" I stopped. I understood. I processed what he said. Then I asked, "Are you going to give that phone to— to whoever is Anson now?"

"That depends," he said.

"On what?"

"On whether he keeps that identity."

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I wasn't able to formulate the questions I wanted to ask. Matt, having seen this reaction umpteen times before, explained it to me.

"As far as the world is concerned, you are no longer Anson Charpont. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I conceded, a bit hesitantly.

"Leave aside the people who actually know you. I'm talking about the world in general. To them, you can't possibly be Anson Charpont. Someone else is playing that role."

"Okay," I conceded grudgingly.

He went on. "Or at least, at this point, someone else looks like Anson Charpont. As to whether they can *be* Anson—"

"Wait a minute — wait a minute —" I interrupted. "Is that person going to get my pension? My 401K? My savings? My social security? My car?"

"It depends," he repeated. "If they maintain the identity, Anson Charpont, they will own all the assets that used to belong to you. They would also assume any debts, if you had any."

"I didn't — I don't," I put in.

"They would assume any legal obligations that you had when you were Anson Charpont. For example, they would be legally married to Cleo."

I fell silent, considering. Effectively, I'd been divorced. By the Switcher.

Matt let me think for a moment. Then, "Now, what does it mean to maintain the identity? It means this: We contact the family of Anson Charpont — I called Cleo, right? We explain the situation, and once she grasps it, once she understands the situation, we will ask her officially whether she can accept that other person as Anson Charpont. If Cleo agrees, then that person will be able to pick up your life right where you left off."

"And if she says no, then that person gets nothing of mine. Right?"

"That's correct."

"So... in that event, do *I* get all my assets? All of Anson's assets? They must revert back to me, right?"

"No. There's no legal mechanism for transferring assets from one Switcher victim to another." I rubbed my chin, taking it in. The smooth feel of my chin was a slight shock — the absence of stubble was a new sensation, one I wasn't yet used to.

"Okay. But let's say Cleo rejects the new Anson. Does that mean I can go—"

"No," Matt said. "For you, there is no way back. What happens if Cleo rejects that person, is that Anson Charpont would be declared dead, and Cloe would proceed as if you were, in fact, dead: there would be insurance payouts, execution of your will — if you have one — all of that."

I blinked a few times. It seemed monstrous.

"In the event that Cleo doesn't accept the new Anson, we can ask — if you *want* us to ask — whether she'll allow you to live with her. You have to understand that she's under no obligation, and that you'd be a guest in her home, in her life. You'd have no right to make any kind of demand of her, at all."

"Oh, man!" I exclaimed.

"It's a hard pill to swallow," Matt said, sympathetically.

"I guess so. Honestly, it *is* what I expected. It's what I thought would happen. It just that — it feels very different when it gets down to brass tacks."

Matt nodded.

"Okay," I said. "I think I understand all that. Now, can you tell me what's involved in my keeping *this* identity?" I gestured at myself. "What do I have to do to be Merope Goddard?"

"Why would you want to?" he asked.

"It beats the alternative," I told him. "I mean, if I'm not her, who am I? You'll make up a name and give it to me. I'll be a disconnected individual. I won't have any parents, or family, or any kind of personal history. I won't have any work history. I won't be anybody."

After a moment, I added, "I won't even be able to make chit-chat. If someone asks where I grew up, where I went to high school, I'll have no answer. Or I'll have to answer with a constructed lie."

"And if you were Merope? How would that be different?"

"At least I'd be a real person. I could dig into my past, into my family—"

"Well, see, that's a thing," Matt said. "If Merope has a family, they'll have to give their okay to your being her."

"How close family would they have to be?" I asked.

"They would have to be members of Merope's immediate family. So... husband, domestic partner, maybe... we'd have to see whether Merope has any children." he looked at me "But that's about it. You're an adult, so that would be it. You wouldn't need parental permission."

"Okay," I agreed. I held up my ring finger. "No husband."

He nodded. "I'll see in a moment whether you have any children or dependents."

"How will you do that?"

"Tax returns," he replied. "We'll see if you declared any dependents."

"Cool!" I exclaimed. I felt sure the result would be negative.

"I hope you understand that you'll have to take the bad with the good. If Merope has any debts, you'd be responsible for them."

"I thought I'd get a clean slate—"

"If we assign you a new identity, then yes, that would be true. If you want to pick up Merope's life, you take everything that comes along with it."

"Okay, I get it."

"If she has any sort of police record..."

"It would be mine now," I agreed, nodding. Rowan had already assured me that I didn't need to worry about that possibility.

Matt leaned back, stretching.

"I have to admit: if you remain Merope, it drastically cuts down on my paperwork."

"That's a good thing."

"You might have to sign a waiver...," he said, sounding uncertain. I frowned.

"I'm getting the impression that most people don't play the hand they're dealt, like the Public Service Announcements say."

"No, most people don't," he admitted. "Not usually. Not unless they're minors and don't have a choice. Or sometimes adults who knew each other before they got switched. Otherwise, if you're an adult, it's a big risk, taking on the life of a stranger. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. It's much safer to get a brand new, never-used identity."

"How does it work out, generally? I mean, for adults who get a new name and all that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do people adjust? Do they have issues, starting their lives off from zero? Or do they manage to make a go of it?"

He gave me a funny look. He sniffed and swallowed, and then he said, "I wouldn't know."

"What? Isn't there some kind of follow-up? Doesn't someone check up on Switcher victims, to see how they're doing?"

"No," he said simply.

"No? Just no?"

"We don't have the resources," he told me.

I was shocked. I felt the blood drain from my face. To think, all the people who were touched by the Switcher... how many were there? hundreds? thousands? They'd been traumatized, dispossessed... and then were abandoned in the end?

"Is there some other agency... I mean, does anyone in the government—"

He cut me off. "Look," he told me. "We don't have the budget for psychologists and therapists, and there's no system in place to track people once they leave here. Nobody looks them up. Nobody asks them how they're doing. There is no other agency." He paused and took a breath. "We do what we can, but the only time we touch the victim's life is while they're here. Once they leave, they're on their own." He blushed. "It's tough, but I'm pretty sure that's the way it is all over the world."

He sighed. "Anyway, you might have to sign a waiver for this. I'll check. You'll have to officially acknowledge that you're responsible for all of it — you know: debts, relationships, jobs..."

A sudden thought hit me, so I burst in: "Oh, that reminds me!"

"Wait, let me finish," he said, "You won't be able to use the fact that you were switched as an out. Officially, legally, being a Switcher victim doesn't count for anything. The government won't ever confirm or deny that you were switched, and we don't hand out I've Been Switched! certificates."

"I see," I said. Then, remembering, I asked, "Well, what about my work history? Can I use my knowledge and experience as Anson to get a job?"

"Everything in your head is yours: all your knowledge, all your mental skills. However, you can't use Anson's work experience on Merope's resume," he said. "But just out of curiosity, what did you used to do for work?"

"I was a COBOL programmer," I told him.

"Hmm," he replied. "Recently? Is that still a thing?"

"Yes, recently!" I shot back, a little hotly, "It's definitely still a thing."

"Okay," Matt conceded. "Touchy subject, I guess."

"Sorry," I told him. "It's just that— oh, never mind!"

"Hopefully, while you're here we'll get an idea of what Merope did for a living. It could be a good possibility for you to follow up on."

"Yeah, who knows?" I agreed, as visions of fake IDs danced in my head.

 

Merope, Maybe : 6 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"If you rely completely on protocol, you can become a robot."
— Margaret Trudeau

---

 

Matt glanced at his computer screen. He made a face. A prompt, an unfinished entry, reminded him that he'd been sidetracked.

"All right," he said, in a brusque, businesslike tone. "Let's get back to the process. We've gotten out of step here. We're doing things out of order. We need go return to the event. You didn't finish giving me your narration. In fact, you only got as far as the moment *before* the switch, if I remember correctly."

"Um..."

"You described the way your cell phone fell to the ground and bounced into the ivy. I take it the Switcher didn't notice."

"No, she had her back to me at that moment."

"And then what happened? You fell on top of him— or her?"

"No, I didn't fall *on* her. In fact, I never actually touched her at all." I described the way my fingers swept down, oh-so-close to her back, but not making even the slightest contact.

"Did your fingers brush her clothes, then?"

"No, my hand just moved through the air behind her. It was electric, though, full of energy, as if she had an aura."

He leaned forward to ask, "How close were your fingers? To her back? To her clothes?"

We went back and forth for a bit. He made notes both on the computer and on paper. He wanted to pin down, as accurately as he could, in millimeters, exactly how close my fingers were to the Switcher's body. He asked me a half-dozen times, in different ways, to make absolutely sure we hadn't touched. Finally, he asked me to demonstrate the distance by reaching my hand toward his computer. He measured the distance with a tiny ruler.

Then he paused the recording for a moment, and told me in an apologetic tone, "I realize this is tedious. Honestly, I don't know why this is so important, but the powers that be go absolutely nuts over this sort of technical detail, if you can call it that."

The next place where Matt wanted such excruciating detail was in my description of the injuries to Anson's body: he asked three times which ankle was twisted (the right one) and the location and severity of Anson's other injuries. It was odd: while I spoke about the scrapes and bruises, I could almost feel the impacts and abrasions as if they happened all over again. I checked the locations by touching myself lightly in the spots that I'd been hurt as Anson.

Matt laid a piece of paper with the outline of a man's body printed on it, and insets with five views of a man's head (left, right, front, back, top) — a generic body, a generic head — and asked me to draw the scrape I'd seen on Anson's face after the fall. He also had me mark X's on the points of impact I mentioned.

"This will help in the match-up... the verification. You know, the daisy-chain... when Anson comes in."

All that remained after that, was to tell him about the four cylinders. He asked the same questions Rowan had:

"Are you sure they weren't rolls of bills?"

"Did the cylinders have any markings or labels?"

"Did they rattle when he handled them?"

"Are you sure they were metal?"

I gave him the same answers I gave Rowan. Then I asked him a question: "Do you have any idea what those cylinders could be?"

"None whatsoever," he replied. "But we have a special channel for observations like this. What you told me will go up the chain once we've authenticated you."

"Authenticated me?"

"As a Switcher victim. I mean, once Anson or John Doe number one pop up, you should be in the clear, and at that point we'll pass this on. That's the protocol."

When Matt said That's the protocol, it reminded me of something my grandfather told me about his time in the Army: "The most important thing you can learn in the Army is that there's a right way, a wrong way, and the Army way. And you can never get in trouble if you do things the Army way."

"How do you know which way is the Army way?" I asked him.

"It's in the manual," he replied.

As a kid, I wanted a copy of that Army manual. I wanted it badly. I didn't like getting in trouble. Of course, I didn't realize that the Army manual only covered Army life. It didn't cover the vicissitudes of childhood and adolescence, or even civilian adulthood.

Even so, right now I wasn't particularly worried about being "in the clear." Unlike Matt or his awful colleague Paul, I already knew my status. I knew what had happened, whether they believed me or not.

Next, Matt went through the contents of Merope's bag. He put on a pair of nitrile gloves, spread a white cloth over his desk, and set the bag on it. He photographed the bag from five or six angles. Then he took each item out of the bag, one by one, set them on his desk, and handed the bag back to me. He grouped the tissues, lipstick, tampon, and sanitary pad, and photographed them. Then he turned them over and photographed the other side.

He handed me the four items, and cleared his throat nervously before saying, "I guess you'll need to learn about all this stuff. The nurse has a booklet that should help you. Feminine hygiene and such." He blushed, looking down.

"The nurse?"

"Yes, after we're done here, you'll need to get a check-up. A superficial physical exam. It's quick, and it's, uh, non-invasive."

His eyebrows went up when he handled the pen, but he photographed it without comment. The wallet and the wallet's contents came last, and in the end, he gave it all back to me.

When he counted the money, he commented, "Forty-seven dollars. So... the Switcher took those cylinders, but he left this money? That's interesting."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"I guess he's the one person on earth who doesn't need to worry about money. Or food. Or anything, as far as material possessions go."

"Guess not."

He examined Merope's drivers license closely. I worried at first that he was going to tell me that the license was fake, but instead he scratched his forehead, he looked up at me with an almost childlike expression, and said, "I've never seen a Nebraska drivers license before."

"Then this is your lucky day," I quipped. "Now we know they've got them there, too." He didn't laugh. He frowned slightly.

In any case, he put the license back in the wallet, along the forty-seven dollars, and handed it over to me.

"Did you spend any of the money that was in that wallet?" he asked.

I blushed. "Yes, I bought myself lunch at a place on Olduvai Street," I confessed. I told him the name of the restaurant.

"How much was it?"

"It was twelve and something," I said.

"So, um, forty-seven and... you don't have a receipt, do you?"

"No, sorry."

"Let's say lunch was thirteen bucks. That makes an even sixty, right? Do you think you started off with three twenties? Or two twenties and two tens? Sorry, but I have to record the breakdown."

"Two twenties and two tens, yes," I lied, feeling like a craven thief. I was definitely not cut out for a life of crime. My nerves would give me away.

Now that my bag was complete again, I asked, "Do I get to keep all this?"

"Yes," he said. "If you're Merope, it all belongs to you." He began to get up from his chair.

"Great." My heart was pounding, as if I'd somehow managed to slip out of a maximum-security lockup.

Matt clicked on his mouse, and the computer responded with a soft ding! Puzzled at first, he peered at the screen until he said a quiet "Oh!" He fetched a 3x5 card from his desk and after some clicking and typing, copied a string of letters and numbers from the computer to a yellow post-it note: 23-8HLFVLQRO4.

"What's that?" I asked.

"This is you," he answered. "By rights, you should have done this first: got your picture taken, got your lanyard. We can do that on the way to the nurse's office...

"Oh, wait, though!" Matt stopped, struck by a sudden thought. He sat back down.

"What about the stuff that's missing?" he asked.

"What's missing?" I cried, anxiously. My voice was a little to loud, a little too high. How could he possibly know?

"Don't worry," he laughed. "All I'm saying is that there are things you'd expect to find, in a woman's bag, in a woman's wallet, and those things just aren't there."

"Oh!" I exclaimed. Now I understood: I'd gone through this with Rowan. "Do you mean, like, photos, receipts, coupons... things like that?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," he agreed. "Was there anything like that in here? When you got the bag? You didn't throw anything away, did you?"

"No, of course not." I replied. "That's the bag, the way I received it."

"When I said things are missing I meant... you know, along the lines of: cell phone, car keys, house keys, membership cards, loyalty cards... stuff like that. I mean, my wife's bag looks like a recycling bin."

"There wasn't anything like that in here," I told him. Then I did an inner fact-check: true. None of the items he named were in the bag when I received it.

He frowned. "That's odd. And you didn't see the Switcher take anything like that out of the bag?"

"Nope," I replied. "Only the cylinders."

"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "Man or woman, the guy is a mystery."

"Oh, hey," I exclaimed, on a sudden impulse. "Speaking of phones, could you look up and see if Merope *had* a phone? And if she did, what was her number? And, um, her carrier?" I don't know why I asked such a thing. As soon as it occurred to me, I blurted it right out.

Matt's expression soured. "No," he answered. "I'm not going to do that. I'm not a private detective! It's not part of our protocol. If you're interested in the life of this woman, you can explore and find out for yourself."

I felt irritated and a little offended by his refusal. Matt's mood changes were confusing and off-putting. Still scowling, he got to his feet and told me that he was taking me to see the nurse. I asked, "Are the two of us finished?"

He gave no sign of detecting my disdain. He simply said, "Yes, we're done. Unless I happen to be the one who processes your exit from this facility."

I couldn't come up with any snappy rejoinder, so I kept my mouth shut and followed him into the hallway.

 

---

 

We took the elevator up to L1 — one level underground. This level was a little brighter, more up to date, less of the Cold-War, military ambiance. Compared to L7, it was downright welcoming. "Here it's a little nicer," Matt acknowledged. "This is usually where the Switcher's victims first land, and do their orientation. This is also where the families of victims come to meet their new family member and decide whether to keep them."

His description struck me as grim and functional. I couldn't help but comment, "You make it sound like they're choosing a pet. A rescue animal."

He gave me a look. He blinked twice. I think he wanted to agree with me, but couldn't unbend that far. Instead he commented, "If you want to put it that way. Just remember: it's your words, not mine."

"Do the families come in through the old post office, upstairs?"

"No," he replied, with a half-frown. "They come in through the parking garage — where *you* would have come in, if you'd called -- as you were supposed to."

My eyebrows went up. I scratched my cheek. Matt must have read the doubt on my face, because he added, "You'll probably see it when you leave... There's a nice entrance in there, specifically set up to receive people. There's always at least two people on duty there, and they're trained to make things easy for new arrivals."

I nodded. The unspoken message was clear: most people didn't drop into the middle of the process, the way I had. Still, it was hardly my fault. The man who met us at the door could have, should have, brought me to the beginning of things.

In any case, Matt handed me over to a young, rail-thin, energetic, smiling young man named Jason. "You need a lanyard," he told me, as if a lanyard would cure all my ills. "But first, we have to take your picture."

He stood me in front of a police line-up wall (the kind with bands that show your height), and snapped three pictures, mugshot style (one facing forward, one each facing right and left). He pulled up the photos on a console and at the bottom superimposed a white text box with MEROPE GODDARD, all caps, and below it my ID number, 23-8HLFVLQRO4. He took my fingerprints with an inkless pad, and swabbed my cheek for a DNA sample.

A little machine printed out a sticker (about the size of a credit card) that showed my photo, my name, and my ID number. Jason picked up the sticker and hesitated. He asked me, "We have a lot of empty rooms at the moment. Would you prefer to sleep on your own, or in the women's dorm?"

"Alone, I'm sure," I replied, with some surprise. "Does anyone choose to sleep in the dorm?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "Most of the people who come through here are pretty freaked out, and the last thing they want is to be alone. I mean, imagine: someone who's afraid they've lost their mind, finding themselves shut up in a windowless room, underground? Sounds like a horror movie."

In fact, when he said those words, afraid they've lost their mind, I had a moment of vertigo. Just a few seconds, but enough for me to see how easily my mind could slip its moorings and drift into boundless nothingness.

"Not many are cool and calm like you," Jason observed. "Very few and far between."

"I guess it's down to temperament," I told him. "I'm good in a crisis. I tend to freak out later."

Jason nodded. "You switched yesterday, though, right? So isn't it *later* already?"

I studied his face for a moment without speaking. Then I said, "Do me a favor. Don't try to talk me into flipping out, okay?"

He immediately backed off, with protestations of innocence. "No, no! That's not what I mean at all! It was... I was... I only meant it as a compliment! That's all."

"Okay."

He selected a magnetic key card from a bin on his desk. It had the number 317 on it. He touched the card to a reader. There was a soft ding! and the number "317" appeared on my record on the screen..

He pulled the backing off the sticker, laid it on the key card, and slipped the card into a plastic sleeve that hung from a bright blue lanyard.

"Wear this around your neck at all times," he said, "unless you're asleep or in the shower."

I draped it around my neck and bent my head to looked at the upside-down image of my new face.

Jason tapped on the card and told me, "That's an electronic key. It will open the women's toilets, the women's showers, the women's dorm — all the places where men aren't allowed to go." He smiled. "The rule about access is simple: if you're not allowed, you won't be able to. Or, if you're able to, it means that you're allowed. Is that clear?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, looking at the photo. "Simple."

"Don't worry about the picture," Jason said. "This equipment is slick, but the results are no better than passport photos. No one expects the picture to look like you. You're much prettier."

"Thanks."

"Oh, one more thing: there's one little downside to having your own room. Before you leave, you'll have to change the sheets, make the bed, clean the bathroom, and take out your own trash. There's a laminated instruction card on the back of the door to your room."

"That's fine," I acknowledged. "No problem."

"It wasn't always that way," he acknowledged, apologetic. "It's 'cause of budget cuts. We used to have people to do everything. And I mean everything. Just, like... for instance... there used to be two people who'd push a cart around to all the offices. Their entire job was making sure we all had coffee, tea, sandwiches, snacks... One of them would pass every 45 minutes. And they covered all three shifts, you know? Cool, right? Now, we have to shlep to the cafeteria, or make our own coffee at one of the little coffee corners in the hall."

I said huh in an encouraging way, so he continued: "At the start, this Switcher business was a bona-fide, hair-on-fire crisis. It was all hands on deck, the best and the brightest, every effort made, no expense spared — all those cliches... and they were actually true. For a while, anyway. Finally we've all realized: there's nothing we can do to stop this guy. So... we can't do literally nothing, but... We've ramped it all down to the absolute bare minimum. Sorry to say this, but the unwritten policy is to do as little as we can get away with." He suddenly caught himself, and looked at me in alarm. "Please don't repeat that to anyone," he said, with some urgency. His face had gone white. "I'm running off at the mouth. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I said, and made the gesture of zipping my lips shut. "I can see you're all working really hard. And that you're doing it with a skeleton crew."

"Yeah," he admitted. "We're a bunch of skeletons, running after a ghost."

 

---

 

Jason led me to the nurse's office. There was a small outer office, with a desk and computer, and two doors leading to EXAM ROOM ONE and EXAM ROOM TWO. Both doors were slightly open.

A woman with red, wavy hair sat on the desk. Under a long white lab coat, she wore loose beige pants and a floral top. A stethoscope dangled around her neck.

Gesturing toward me, Jason announced to the nurse, "Here is our famous walk-in, Merope Goddard." He gestured toward the nurse and told me, "And this lovely lady is Mrs Buckingham, our nurse." He handed Mrs Buckingham a couple of 3x5 cards printed with my picture, name, and ID.

Mrs Buckingham nodded at me with a slight smile, and said, "Welcome." She didn't reach out to shake hands (as I did), so I grasped my right hand with my left — as though that's what I intended all along. I nodded back. Jason exited without further ceremony.

I asked the nurse, "Is being a walk-in really such a big deal?"

She shrugged. "It's unusual. It's nothing bad, but... I mean, you saw the neighborhood we're in, right? What are the chances the Switcher would be wandering around up there? We're a long, long drive from anywhere. Most people who got touched by the Switcher don't get here under their own power, and generally they have no idea where they are while they're here. Usually, Switcher victims are brought here by the police. Sometimes, it's the FBI or Homeland Security. Depends on the circumstances. But mostly it's the police."

I smiled. "I suppose the police have to write a report then, don't they." I smirked, thinking of Rowan's aversion to report-writing.

She gave me a puzzled look. "Well, of course they do. It's part of their job. But you've skipped over that part, and started in the middle with us. So, yes, you shouldn't be surprised if people comment on your being a walk-in." She picked up a small plastic crate and stuck one of my 3x5 cards into a slot on the front.

She grabbed a hospital gown from a pile on a table and carried the gown and the crate into one of the exam rooms. I followed her in. She set the crate on a chair, and set the gown on an examination table.

"Take off all your clothes — underwear, shoes, everything — and put it all into this box. Put on the hospital gown, open in the back. When we're done with the examination, I'll give you something else to wear."

"Do I put my purse — my bag — in there, too?"

"Is there anything you want to keep in there?"

"Well, yes. Drivers license, a nice pen, a little money..."

"You should just hang on to it, then. They're going to do some goofy tests on your clothes. The tests are pointless, so it's fine if you want to hold something back. Oh, and if you like those clothes, and want to get *those* back, you'll have to make a point of asking for them before you leave."

"Okay," I acknowledged, nodding. "Um, what kind of tests are they going to do?"

"On your clothes?" She sighed. "Nothing serious, to tell the truth. In the beginning, when nobody knew anything about the Switcher, scientists tried every single test they could think of, looking for radiation, first of all. There wasn't any. Then gas chromatography. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Once, after a mass incident, the FBI took bales of clothes from dozens of people, and ran them through every test on the planet, but in the end, you know what they discovered? Their official conclusion was that all they had was clothes. Ordinary clothes; just like any other clothes. The clothes didn't change. There wasn't any Switchy residue. There wasn't any magic." She shook her head.

I frowned, not understanding. "So, after going through all that, the FBI is still going to test my clothes?"

Mrs Buckingham laughed. "No, hon. That incident was the last straw, as far as the FBI was concerned. They won't test anything Switcher-related any more. It's a drain on resources. No, all our testing is carried out down here. We've got a little lab. They do a couple of tests. Nothing fancy. They fill out some forms. That's all."

"And they never find anything?"

"Nope. There's nothing to find!"

"Then why don't they stop testing?"

She smiled. "Have you ever worked for a government agency? No?" She shook her head. "I'm going to sound like a terrible cynic, but the problem is: if you don't spend every penny of your budget this year, you'll get less money next year."

I had no idea how to respond, so I just smiled. Probably a stupid-looking smile. It occurred to me that I had no idea what I look like when I smile. I'd have to check it out, first chance I got.

The exam was pretty unremarkable. She listened to my heart and lungs, shined a light into my eyes, looked in my ears, looked at my teeth...

"I'm just marking the obvious cavities. And... it looks like you had your wisdom teeth extracted. I'm no dentist, but I'd say that your teeth are in good shape, but you're overdue for a cleaning. Did you floss, in your former body?"

"Oh, yes, I was, uh, rigorous about it."

She nodded. "Try to carry over your good dental habits into this life, as well."

"I will." A thought occurred to me. "Are you going to do dental x-rays?"

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? For you, I mean," she said. "We used to do a full set of dental x-rays, back in the day," she told me. "But, budget cuts..."

"I hear you," I said.

She tapped my knee with a rubber hammer to test my reflex. She drew some blood (two tubes), and had me slip out of my gown so she could check for "distinguishing features": birthmarks, scars, tattoos. I had none of the above. She noted that my ears were "only pierced once."

"Is that bad?" I asked.

"No, of course not," she replied.

I slipped back into the gown. Mrs Buckingham exited, carrying my clothes in the plastic crate. Soon after, she returned with a set of anonymous white underwear, a pair of slippers, pants, and a t-shirt. They looked like army fatigues. "We have plenty of these," she told me. "You'll see cartloads here and there in the hallways. So change as often as you need to. They're meant to be worn while you're here, but if you want, you can keep a set as a souvenir."

After learning that I used to be a man, she gave me a book about women's bodies. It had big, balloon-like lettering on the cover, and cartoon-like illustrations throughout. Mrs Buckingham saw my doubtful look, and told me, "This is obviously aimed at a very young reading level, but in spite of that, it's surprisingly thorough. You'll find that it covers all the things you'll need to know. In some sections the cartoon facade is very thin."

"Okay," I acknowledged. I didn't mean to sound doubtful.

"It's a money-saving effort," she explained with a sigh. "Budget cuts. That's the story with everything here. We have to make do with one size fits all wherever we can. Luckily, this book works very well. Even young girls understand it without being bored, and adults who want and need the information are smart enough to ignore the way it's presented."

"Got it," I said, a little more confidently.

Oh — there was one more thing. I asked Mrs Buckingham if she could tell whether I'd ever had children. She had me hop up on the table and put my feet into the stirrups. She did a quick pelvic exam, which left me speechless. I must have made the strangest faces, because I could see *her* face twitching, struggling to not react (not to laugh) every time she looked at me. Afterward, when I covered myself and she washed her hands, she asked me, "How did that compare to a prostate exam? Better? Worse? More invasive? Less invasive?"

I wasn't sure whether she was poking fun at me or asking a genuine question. I didn't *think* she was being mean, but at first all I could manage to say was, "Um..."

After a while I offered, "I must have been making the wildest faces."

Her mouth twitched again as she tried not to laugh, and she said, "You could say that."

In any case... Mrs Buckingham assured me that I'd never given birth.

"Are you sure?"

"Beyond any doubt."

After I got dressed in the army fatigues, I stopped on the very threshold of her office, and asked, "Are you able to access Merope's medical records?"

"No, I can't," was her flat response.

"Budget cuts?" I quipped.

"Sure," she said, twisting her mouth a little sourly. "Let's go with that."

 

---

 

She must have called Jason while I was dressing, because he came trotting up the hallway, ready to show me to my quarters.

 

---

 

My room was a good size. It had a desk and chair, a double bed and a bathroom fitted with bathtub and shower. There was, of course, no window, and the only other piece of furniture was a small bookcase topped by a very plastic-looking bright-red rose in a dark blue vase, and a digital alarm clock with glowing red numbers.

The bookcase held old copies of Treasure Island, Beloved, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Moby-Dick, Valley of the Dolls, and Look Homeward, Angel along with a handful of Harlequin Romances and three titles by Jackie Collins.

"There's a library, such as it is, next to the cafeteria," Jason offered. "You saw the signs in the hall: just follow them to the cafeteria. There's also a lounge next to the cafeteria, where you can hang out. Your badge opens your room. Only you (or the staff) can open your room, and the staff won't do that unless there's an emergency."

He pointed out that my room number was written on my access card. "Room ranges are indicated by signs on the wall," he explained. "There are phones at intervals in the hall if you need any kind of help, but I think you'll find you're better off figuring things out for yourself."

I remembered Rowan's warning to not expect too much, so I said, "Sounds fine."

Jason seemed relieved to hear my answer. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, told me I'd do "great," and left me alone in my cell-like room.

By "cell-like," I don't mean "prison-like." It was more monastic than penal. More basement than jail.

The mattress was firm but comfortable. The bathroom was perfectly clean, and there seemed to be abundant hot water, and plenty of hotel-sized shampoo, conditioner, and so on.

"And it's all free," I said out loud. There were certainly worse places to land.

But... there was no television and no internet. There wasn't even an AM radio.

So I took a walk to check out the cafeteria/lounge/library.

On the way I passed a door labeled Women. I stopped for a moment, and wondered if I dared.

It may as well have read Authorized Personnel Only, because the writing stopped me.

Then, after a moment, I realized, I am authorized! I am a woman! and I pushed on the door.

It didn't budge.

I held my keycard against the sensor to the right of the door. The lock clicked. The door opened.

Inside there were showers, toilets, sinks, all in a row. Ten of everything. It didn't look particularly feminine. The walls and the floor were covered in white tile squares. A built-in set of bookshelves was loaded with clean, neatly-folded white bath towels.

In the left wall, there was a second door. I opened it. It was the women's dorm: a room fulled with ten beds. Near each bed stood a small bedside table. Two women were in there, sitting on their beds, facing each other, talking intently. When I stuck my head in, they stopped talking and turned to look at me. I gaped, stupidly, not knowing what to do or say next. Clearly I was intruding.

"What the fuck do you want?" One of them demanded belligerently.

"Nothing," I muttered, and closed the door.

Back in the hallway, the next door also led to the dorm; the same dorm. It was clearly labeled Women's Dormitory.

"No thank you," I said, to no one in particular, and felt grateful that I'd opted to sleep alone.

After another left and a right I arrived. The hallway opened to a wide space where the light was a little brighter. It was a sort of entryway to the lounge on the right, the library on the left, and the cafeteria straight ahead.

The library was larger than I expected. From my vantage point in the doorway I couldn't see where the tall metal shelves ended. It reminded me a little of the used bookstore across from Rowan's place, although this collection of books didn't have the dust or the musty smell that characterized the bookstore.

I would have gone in and poked around for a bit if it weren't for the presence of a young, lanky guy with a blond crewcut. He (like me) was dressed in fatigues and slippers. If it weren't for his slippers and his bright blue lanyard, I would have taken him for a soldier. One big stealthful step backward, and I managed to slip away before he saw me.

It wasn't that he scared me, or that he gave off a weird vibe. Neither of those things. I just didn't feel up to an encounter with a random man. I've never been shy in social situations — at least when I was Anson, but as Merope? I still found it awkward; as if I was only pretending to be Merope, still in danger of being caught out.

The lounge was also a good size — there seemed to be plenty of it. A lively ping pong game was taking place at the far end of the room. One end of a pool table was visible, jutting out from around a corner, suggesting that there was a lot more lounge in that direction. There were plenty of armchairs and low tables around the room — some of them solitary, others in groups. The sound of a TV came from somewhere inside; I couldn't see where. It looked alright and felt alright — more open and public than the library shelves. The high ceilings helped give a comfortable, roomy feeling.

In the end, I took the third choice and wandered into the cafeteria. Like the other two public options, the cafeteria was capacious. There was plenty of space and plenty of tables: mostly tables for six. There were a few tables for four. The table tops were green formica, like almost every other horizontal surface in the facility. Best of all, there was no one there.

Against the leftmost wall was the line where food was served. As I watched, a young woman emerged from the kitchen and eased a covered stainless-steel food pan into the warming table. That done, she gave the counter a quick sweep with a clean cloth, took a deep breath, and wiped her brow with the back of her forearm.

She spotted me right away, and waved me over with a welcoming smile. In spite of her invitation, I felt a little tentative. I don't know why. Residual Merope awkwardness, I guess. The woman had a friendly face framed by a hairnet. Her uniform was all white: white cotton pants and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt, buttoned up the front. Her white apron was lightly spotted with food, fresh from today.

"We're not ready with lunch yet," she told me. "Give us another forty-five minutes. There's still plenty of breakfast though, if that'll do ya."

"Um, yeah, sure," I agreed. "Breakfast sounds great. Um..." I looked down the line, expecting to see a cash register at the end of it. "Um, where do I pay?"

"Oh, you don't pay," she said. "People gotta eat, don't they? This is one place the budget cuts haven't hit."

I nodded.

"Not yet, anyway," she added. "Help yourself." She waved her hand at the food-service line. "You can't see the coffee and drink area from here, but it's kind-of set into the wall after the end of the line. See?" She pointed and gestured. "Well, you don't see, but it's right down there."

"Thanks," I told her, and she returned to the kitchen.

I wasn't hungry, but I had nothing else to do, so I loaded my plate with a taste of everything: one pancake, one piece of french toast, a waffle, a little bit of scrambled egg, hash browned potatoes, a little wedge of a western omelet, two kinds of sausage, a tiny spoonful of corned-beef hash, a baked tomato, two slices of pumpernickle toast...

I hesitated over the eggs benedict. If only I'd seen it earlier! But there was no room on my plate, and I doubted I could do justice to the load I'd already taken.

The coffee was surprisingly good. Great aroma. Hot and fresh.

For some reason I took a seat in the center of the room. Maybe I liked having all the tables arrayed around me, like a fort. I poked at my food, taking little bites of everything, sawing off a triangle of pancake, a morsel of sausage... I picked up the waffle in my hand and bit into it. The only disappointment was the hash: it had a chewy, raw taste, as if the potatoes were simply ground up but still uncooked.

The raw-potato taste seemed to stick to my teeth. I ate a half slice of pumpernickle and drank most of my coffee to wash the sensation out of my mouth. Still, on the whole, the massive unlimited breakfast raised my spirits.

After wending my way through the tables, I was refilling my coffee when the soldier appeared at my elbow. I'd been turned slightly to my right; the door on my left. So I hadn't seen him walk into the room. It was the same blond crewcut from the library. He was biting his lower lip, glancing at me quickly then looking away, clearly nervous, maybe a little afraid. He picked up a coffee mug and fumbled, nearly dropping it. He sighed and muttered something I couldn't hear. Then he turned and gestured to my breakfast, back there in the middle of the room. "Is that yours?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I kind of went overboard."

He said, "Ha," like he was trying to laugh. Then he filled his coffee mug too full, spilling some. "Dammit," he said softly, as if it was the one last straw and he could bear no more. He gave up and set the mug down, abandoning it. Opening his eyes wide, the way you do to keep the tears in, he asked, "Hey, listen, do you— do you mind if I sit with you — for a bit, anyway? I'm— I'm— uh, I don't want to be alone."

I opened my mouth to answer. Selfish of me, I know, but I wanted to make some excuse and go hide in my room. Before I could make a sound or even decide what to say, he went on in a flood of words, breathless, "I'm not going to hit on your or anything like that! I'm a— I'm a Switcher victim. I used to be a woman, and now..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "Now look at me." His face fell as he stared down at himself, forlorn, then turned his eyes back up at me. His mouth twitched; his lips trembled. He repeated his question, "Can I sit with you? For just a little while, even?"

 

Merope, Maybe : 7 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"The rabbit–hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way,
and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly
that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself..."
— Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

---

 

"My name is Laura," the boy with the crewcut said. Then he closed his eyes tight, balled up his fists, and hunched over, clenching his jaw. "I can't deal with this," she whispered, "hearing his voice come out of my mouth."

"I know how you feel," I told him/her, uncertain as to whether I should put my hand on his shoulder or go so far as to give him a hug.

She shot me a look of hot, scornful disbelief. "How could you possibly?" she hissed.

"I'm a Switcher victim too," I replied. I found myself speaking in a soft, gentle voice. "I used to be a man."

She cooled off a little at that, and after looking me up and down quickly, said, "At least things went the right way for you."

Did they? I asked myself, but I didn't say it aloud. Instead I asked her, "Tell me what happened."

Laura began by describing in great detail what she was wearing at the time. It was basically a simple outfit: a short flare skirt, a crop top that showed her belly button, and a pair of sandals. In spite of its simplicity, she was meticulous in describing the cut, the color, the fabric, the designs. Cute was the essential idea; the impression she meant to give. She described the three bracelets she wore, her three sets of earrings, and her three necklaces. "I love the number three," she confided. "It's my lucky number."

After setting the sartorial stage, she laid out the emotional setting.

Laura and her boyfriend Pete (who started off the night with the lanky build and the blond crewcut) were walking in the cool of the evening, in a park, not far from the river. Laura was struggling to engage Pete in a serious and difficult discussion. She had just turned eighteen, while Pete remained a month shy of seventeen. Earlier that day, a friend teased Laura about Pete's age, and jokingly accused Laura of "robbing the cradle." Laura, in her own intensely serious way, took the words to heart, and worked herself into a near panic. She developed a vivid mental picture of herself condemned to a life sentence in a federal penitentiary, denied of all but the most basic hair-care products, and reduced to a single wardrobe choice: an orange jumpsuit.

Pete let out a loud guffaw at the idea. He thought she was kidding, and even when he saw she wasn't, he found it impossible to take the issue seriously. He kept trying to tease, hug, and tickle her into a better mood. He failed to notice that his efforts to lighten the mood only pushed Laura further and further into a deep well of anger and frustration. It wasn't until she finally broke down in tears and inarticulate cries — inarticulate because she spoke and sobbed in the same breaths, leaving Pete with a string of syllables and sounds that didn't resolve into words.

Pete was a little slow, but he wasn't a total, gormless idiot, and once he finally began to actively listen, he quickly caught on to Laura's point. "He stopped with all the stupid tickling, and said Okay, then, what do you think we should do?" It was in those vulnerable moments, as Laura composed herself and Pete began to show his concern, that the Switcher accosted the young couple.

Of course, Laura and Pete had no idea who he was. Neither ever expected to encounter the Switcher, ever in their lives. They'd have no way to recognize him, in any case. At the moment, the Switcher was a young guy with light brown hair; a twenty-something... short, a little stocky, in obvious need of a wash. His feet were bare and dirty, and he was dressed in blue shorts and a black t-shirt. "I thought he might be homeless," Laura confessed. Then, after a pause and a deep breath, she added (a bit incongruously), "He was carrying a fanny pack." She frowned. "He walked up, with this smirk — I hate people who smirk — and he says, What a cute couple! Pete asks him, very politely, Hey, do you mind? We're having a private discussion here. But the Switcher just stood there looking at us, like he was trying to decide something. He doesn't go away.

"So Pete asks again, Do you mind? The two of us are trying to talk. The Switcher — he still doesn't move. Pete steps between me and the Switcher, because for sure something was coming — the guy was going to try something — and the Switcher says, I want to show you a cool move. He takes off his fanny pack. He sets it on the ground and shoves it with his foot, so it slides past Pete, past me, which was weird. Then he says, Watch this! and he laughs this evil laugh. He gives Pete a shove, so Pete falls into me, and I fall on my butt. But then—" Laura stopped, strangely quiet. After a pause, she continued.

"I saw myself get up off the ground. I saw myself pick up the fanny pack and run away, laughing. It was so confusing and disorienting... just to watch myself run while I sat there on the ground. Stupid me! All I could think was what a nice skirt I was wearing—" she blushed "—and that I needed to brush the dirt off the back... off the back of the skirt." She stopped again, staring as if she was watching herself run off.

"And then what happened?" I prompted.

"Then, behind me, the guy in the blue shorts says, Holy shit, Laura, what just happened? and I thought, How does he know my name? I looked at him and it was so weird. It was like I saw Pete's reflection in his eyes. I looked down at myself and understood what happened. I said Pete, that asshole was the Switcher! and he laughed and said, Well, now we're fucked because I'm not gay." She looked at me with big liquid eyes and asked, "Can you believe *that* was the first thing he said to me?" She stared, slack-jawed with disbelief and repeated, "He laughed!"

"He sure doesn't sound like the most sensitive guy," I admitted. Then, remembering Femke's remark to me on the drive here, and I repeated it to the crewcut girl: "I think you're well shot of him, Laura."

"Well shot?" she repeated, incredulous, loaded with all the easy scorn of youth. "Well shot? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're... uh... lucky to be rid of him."

"Hmph," she grunted. "Maybe. But well shot? Nobody says that. It's old-timey and weird. Like guns or something." She shook her head. "It's weird."

"Got it," I told her in a strong tone, and she dropped it.

She shifted around in her chair. "Anyway, you're right. He's not very sensitive. At all."

What was weird to me, far weirder than any "old-timey" phrase, was the contrast between the loose, sinewy, obviously masculine body sitting next to me, and the sensitive, emotional female soul inside. I couldn't call her him. There was nothing him about her: Her movements, her facial expressions, the way she talked, the way she reacted when I talked... This was simply a teenage girl, sitting next to me. But, how many people, other than me, would see her that way and treat her that way?

I'd thought earlier that people who get switched into a young life are dealt a better hand than people who fall suddenly into old age and illness. But this girl... Laura... what kind of life was she going to have? Would she eventually adapt to her new physiology?

At one point, when we were talking later on, she asked me in a quiet, confidential tone, "Do you ever get used to the penis?"

"What — do you mean, get used to having one?" I asked. She nodded, and glanced around furtively.

"Well, I don't miss it," I confessed, "You do kind of always know it's there. It seems to have a mind all its own."

"Yeah," she agreed. "It doesn't fit. It's like someone stuck a sausage in my pants. I just want to pull it out and throw it away!"

"Don't do that," I replied, half-joking. "You *can* have fun with it, you know."

"Hmmph," she grunted. "This morning I woke up with a boner," she told me. "I was so embarrassed."

"Yes, it can be inconvenient," I agreed. She made a sort of grimace.

With a few second's delay, her phrase yesterday morning I woke up... lit a light bulb inside my brain.

"Hey, Laura," I drawled, trying to keep a lid on my excitement, "How many days have you been here?"

"Too many," she shot back, and then: "We got here late last night."

"You and Pete?"

"Who else would there be? The other me is still out there somewhere, running around, switching people."

I didn't bother pointing out that Laura's "other me" only had one switch in her: once the Switcher moved to his next body, Laura's "other me" would be stuck forever as some stranger. Instead, I asked, "So, you were switched on Friday evening?" This was exciting news: Pete and Laura were links farther down the daisy chain. The barefoot guy in the blue shorts probably came right after Anson. We were a step, or a few steps, closer to fitting me into the established line of victims so I could get out of here.

Laura frowned at me. A frown that asked, Are you crazy? "No, I got switched on Thursday night. Why would you think it was last night?"

"Because I got switched just after lunch," I told her, "yesterday."

"Oh, my, I hope you had a lovely lunch," Laura intoned, half-mocking me. "What does that have to do with me?"

"I figured that you and Pete are further down the chain than me," I explained.

Her eyes narrowed. "What chain?"

"The daisy chain... of Switcher victims. We're all in a line, see?"

She huffed. She said, "Whatever! They'd like you to think so!"

Her response threw me a little, but I didn't want to get sidetracked. I wanted... needed... to know where she stood on the chain in relation to me. I asked her, "Listen, when they interviewed you, did they accuse you of trying to commit fraud?"

Laura's facial expression turned hard. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, and she chanted, "OH. MY. GOD. Some asshole, some frat boy, said that to me, yeah. I couldn't believe it!"

"So, he must have explained—"

"I didn't let him explain ANYTHING. I started screaming and screaming. Every time he tried to talk, I screamed even louder." She shook her head. "After a while he got all red in the face and gave up. He walked out of the room and I never saw him again. Asshole!"

"Ah. Well, that'll do it," I observed.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Government creeps!"

"Okay," I said, tentatively. Clearly, I was walking on eggs at this point. "Um, so anyway, there's this chain of people, or a line of people that the Switcher switched—" I began.

She interrupted. "Why do you even care? And how do you know that's any of that is true?"

"True?" I repeated. I had be careful. I remembered my conversations with my son Herman when he was a teenager. How easily he'd abandon logic and facts. I needed to keep on track: stick to the daisy-chain. I told her in a clear, calm tone, "Because until they find the person I used to be, or the person who used to live in this body, they aren't going to let me leave this place."

She regarded me in silence for a long moment, then said, "I guess that means you're here forever, then. How could they possibly ever find those people? That is — if they even wanted to find them. They're all out there switching, right? They could be anybody by now."

"Uh... no," I contradicted. "It doesn't work like that."

She shook her head scornfully. She waved her hands dismissively.

"People say a lot of shit about the Switcher and switching," she told me, "but they don't tell you the truth."

The truth. Here she was, talking about "the truth" again. I figured I may as well indulge her. By now it was clear that she was farther *back* on the daisy chain — she and Pete were switched *before* Merope. Obviously, she'd have no idea what happened to the "other Laura" who ran off. There'd be no clue as to how many people stood between them and me on the chain.

So I asked her, "What truth?" I expected some bit of misinformation or misunderstanding... some uninformed version of how things are. What I didn't expect was a full-blown, hard-edged conspiracy theory, fueled by suspicion, resentment, and mistrust.

"The truth is, they could switch everybody back, if they wanted to. But they like things this way: all the confusion, all of us chasing our tails, thinking we're trapped — but we're not."

"No," I contradicted. "They can't switch anybody back. Not even the Switcher can switch us back."

"That doesn't make sense," she said. "They tell you that everybody can only switch once, but supposedly this Switcher is out there, switching seven times a day! That's impossible!"

"No — if that was possible, somebody would have switched back already, and we'd have heard about it."

Laura gave me a sly look. "How do you know nobody's switched back? Maybe they did... but they have to keep quiet about it."

"Why would they need to keep quiet?"

"Because the government would shut them up, real quick, and permanently."

"Oh, Laura," I sighed. "This is just a conspiracy theory! None of it is based on facts or observations!"

"How do you know?" she challenged. How do you know?

 

---

 

I've never met a conspiracy theorist of any stamp before, and after listening to Laura spill out her multiple theories, I never want to meet one again.

A few times I pointed out that her various ideas didn't hold together: some of them outright contradicted each other.

"If people who are switched can go around switching people, how come you and I can't do that?" I challenged.

"I don't know," she replied, undaunted. "But think about vampires: how come some people get bit and die, and other people get bitten and turn into vampires themselves?"

"I don't know the answer to that," I exclaimed, exasperated, "but vampires aren't real!"

Laura fell silent for a long while after that, but just as I was about to return to the idea of the daisy chain, she muttered sullenly, "It must be nice to know everything!"

Her teenage resentment made me feel guilty and sorry for her. I opened my mouth to speak, but she pre-empted me.

"I'm in love with him," she said in a quiet voice. I had to strain to hear. "I was in love with him. But now what? He's somebody else, and I'm him! How could it possibly be worse?"

I almost told her that things can always be worse, but doubted she'd find any consolation in the idea.

"Now he's being a dick about it. He's avoiding me! He's in the next room playing ping pong, as if nothing's wrong!" She sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. I pushed my unused napkins in her direction.

"I want to call my parents, but they won't let me!"

"Protocol," I commiserated. She agreed with a scoff.

"Now I have to wait for Pete's parents to decide what happens to me."

"Why?"

"Haven't you been listening?" she accused. "I'm a minor now! Either Pete's parents take me in, or I end up being a ward of the state."

"And Pete?"

"Well, first they have to figure out who the hell he is. The homeless guy had no ID." She raised her eyes and watched the kitchen staff as they removed the breakfast items from the food line. "Why couldn't the Switcher just swap me and Pete? Things would still be weird, but at least they'd be simpler."

I couldn't help but point out that her proposal was simply impossible. "He can't swap two people. It's not possible."

"Why not?" she challenged.

"Because there are three people," I said. "You, Pete, and the Switcher. Imagine that each of you is wearing a hat. First, the Switcher swaps hats with Pete. Then Pete and you swap hats. How do you and Pete end up with each other's hats? You can't, because the first person has Pete's hat."

"Then me and the first guy swap hats," she observed. "It's simple."

I opened my mouth to object, knowing that as hats go, she was correct. But as for switching, it wouldn't work. That last switch couldn't happen, because each person can only switch once. But there was no point in arguing with her. I resigned myself to saying, "Nobody knows how the Switcher does it, or why it works the way it does."

"I don't believe that," she said. "The scientists must know. It's their job, right? A scientist created the Switcher—"

"—and the Switcher killed him afterward—"

She made a sweeping motion with her hands, as if smoothing sand. "What one scientist can do, any scientist can do."

"That's not true," I objected.

"They know," she insisted. "Scientists know. They could change us all back, if they wanted. But they don't want to."

"I'm not sure I'd want to go back," I told her.

She gave me a strange look, and said, "Then you'd be messing things up for someone else."

We fell into silence after that. My head had begun to hurt, and I felt tired. Very tired. Emotionally tired. I was about to make an excuse for returning to my room, but Laura beat me to the punch.

"I'm going to go watch the ping pong match," she informed me. "Maybe Pete will feel like talking."

"Good luck," I told her, and watched her walk away.

 

---

A Note of Caution, from the author to the reader:
Please keep in mind that virtually EVERYTHING Laura says
about the Switcher and the government is incorrect.
It's a conspiracy theory, with no factual basis.

---

 

 

Merope, Maybe : 8 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"Our two greatest problems are gravity and paperwork.
We can lick gravity, but sometimes the paperwork is overwhelming."
— Wernher von Braun

---

 

The next morning, I woke up because someone was tapping me. If I'd been less asleep, the fact of someone touching me at all would have jerked me into full consciousness: I would have instantly hit battle mode.

It didn't happen this time because I was down too deep. When I lay down on my bed last night, I was exhausted, and slept the sleep of the dead. So... when it came time to wake up, it was a long, slow climb back to consciousness.

As I made that sluggish, lead-footed, and confused ascent from the land of dreams to the land of the living, I did my best to piece things together: to separate dream from reality.

Yes, someone was gently, rhythmically tapping my ring finger, tap tap tap. Why on earth would anyone do that? Gradually I understood that it was *me* tapping. Me tapping myself. My left thumb curled inside my hand, tapping my left ring ringer, close to the base. A few more steps out of dreamworld, and I understood why.

Cleo and I have been married — had been married — were married for... twenty-five years, give or take. I can never remember the exact number. It doesn't matter now.

In all that time, I've never taken off my wedding ring. Never. Well... hardly ever. I'd sense the lack, the absence, right away — the sensation of something missing, and I'd feel a low-grade panic until I found the ring and put it back on.

Now, of course, there was no finding it. There was no putting it back on. It was gone, along with my previous body. Some other Anson was wearing it now.

Maybe he was waking up as well, his thumb tapping what used to be my ring finger, my ring. Maybe he's asking himself who is on the other end of that ring? Had he met Cleo? Have they argued yet?

I exhaled heavily and sat up, looking at my left hand. I'd looked at myself before; I knew the story already: Merope had never been married; never worn a wedding ring. I could see this by the light coming under my door from the hallway.

This room needs a decent nightlight, I said to myself. Something a little more intentional than the light under the door.

"I'll put it in my Yelp review," I said aloud, and laughed. "I have to comment on the decor... and of course on the wi-fi service—"

I stopped in mid-sentence. How was the wi-fi? I wondered. I hadn't noticed any routers anywhere, not that I was looking. Then again, I hadn't seen many devices that would need wi-fi. Except in the nurse's office. She had a tablet, so there must have been a connection nearby.

Out of habit, I groped in the near darkness for my nightstand, for my phone. I only wanted to know the time, but — whatever. Merope didn't have a phone. Not at the moment, anyway. And there was no nightstand.

Do phones work, this far underground? Well, actually we were only one or two levels down, but there had to be a huge mass of steel and concrete above and around me. The base was probably one huge Faraday cage.

I dangled my head over the side of the bed and stared at the red glowing numbers, upside-down, on the clock over the bookcase. 8:45 AM. I didn't usually sleep that late. I'm usually up before dawn.

After a brief trip to the bathroom, I stood in the middle of my room, blinking, still slightly foggy with sleep. I debated myself: was I was hungry enough to dress and make my way to the cafeteria, or would I be better off crawling back into bed. Coffee? Or pillow? I decided to go with the coffee option, which raised the question of showering or not showering. So many decisions! I made my bed and was smoothing the blanket, when another tapping started. There was someone at my door. Who could it be? God, please don't let it be Laura, I prayed. But even so... I took a deep breath and opened the door a couple inches, placing my body behind it to hide the fact that I wasn't wearing any pants.

It was Femke. "I come with breakfast," she said, matter of factly. She didn't ask whether she'd woken me.

"Oh, my God! I'm so happy to see you!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, awesome! It's so awesome!" she joked, in a very broad American accent. "Don't overdo it," she cautioned.

"I'll overdo if I like," I told her. "I'm American — I'm going to act out like an American! Come in! Come on in!"

Femke was dressed, like me, in Army fatigues. "It's camouflage," she explained. I hesitated, unsure whether to tell her that I knew very well what the splotches of green, black, and brown were called. Femke, watching my face, frowned. "I can see the gears spinning in your head," she told me. "I'm joking. I'm wearing these to blend in, so I look like one of you." She gestured at herself. "I know this is camouflage, but it's also camouflage. Get it?"

The lanyard around her neck was white, and held a card with her picture, her name, and the title "INTL OBSERVER." She saw me glance at it, and grinning told me, "I'm an international observer." She laughed. "I'm observing like all-get-out." She set a bag of food on the end of my bed, and pulled two cups of coffee out of a four-cup carrier. She rested the drinks atop the little bookcase.

Inside the bag were two styrofoam take-out containers. The contents were identical: one for her, one for me. They held huevos rancheros, fresh tortillas, white rice, and black beans. As if that wasn't enough, there were four slices of buttered toast. The coffee cups were large, holding generous, hot black coffee. Everything was excellent.

"Is this from the cafeteria?" I asked. "I have to say, the food here is something else!"

"Something else?" Femke echoed.

"Oh — I mean, it's really good. It's exceptional."

She nodded. "It's not from the cafeteria."

I blinked a few times, waiting for more. When she wasn't forthcoming, I asked, "Where is it from, then?"

She raised her head and thought for a moment as she chewed. After she swallowed, she answered, "Let's say we sent out for it." She spooned some beans and rice into her mouth and picked up a tortilla.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

She sighed. "Don't ask," she replied. "It means, don't ask. I'll tell you after we get out of this place."

I frowned and pressed her again, but she wouldn't budge. She wouldn't say another word, except to repeat that she'd tell me once we left the center.

A little frustrated, I changed the subject. "So, how have you spent your time here, so far?"

"I'm looking around," she answered. "Observing. Getting the lay of the land. Is that correct to say?"

"The lay of the land? Yes, that's perfect," I replied. "And what have you found?"

She raised her eyebrows and smiled like the cat who swallowed the canary. "You won't believe it," she confided. "But in any case you'll have to wait until we leave before I tell you."

"Why?" I demanded. Now I was more than a little miffed, and starting to get offended. "What's with all the mystery and the things you won't tell me?"

"Rowan told me that you can't keep a secret, so it's better not to tell you... sensitive... things until we're safely out of here."

"Hmmph!"

"One thing I *can* tell you that your old self, Mr Anson Charpont, has not yet put in an appearance! It's very strange."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I checked before coming here, just now. The center knows nothing about him. Also — and here is a bit of good news — Stan has given me a pager that will alert me the moment your Anson arrives." She showed me a small dark block clipped to her waist.

"Who is Stan?"

She sighed heavily. "Stan is the stoner who let us into this place. Remember? The dude who lives in a cloud of marijuana smoke? As it happens, he is the facilities manager — can you believe it? He is responsible for this entire installation, and for that reason, he has access to everything here. Everything. They have a room full of pagers. Pagers! Who needs pagers nowadays? And yet they have enough for an army! They also have an alert system that can send out automatic pages for anything and everything."

I didn't know what to respond, so I didn't say anything.

Femke went on. "I'm going to call Rowan in an hour. I'm going to ask him to dig into the whereabouts of your old self."

"Thanks."

"He should be able to tell us what's what. He is a big-city detective, after all," she quipped.

After chewing for a bit, and swallowing, Femke sniffed the air around her. She asked me, "Do I smell of pot?"

I took a few experimental sniffs. "No. Not at all. Were you smoking?"

"No, but Stan — he reeks of it. I was afraid his stink might... transfer to me."

"No, you're fine."

"That man is high every moment of the day, if you can believe it. He smokes even when he is already on his ass. I'm convinced that when he dies, his autopsy will show that his brain is ten percent brain cells, and ninety percent resin."

I laughed.

"Stan believes that he and I have an Amsterdam connection, as he puts it, and for that reason he is happy to do things for me. He can believe in this connection all he likes, as long he stands far enough back that his pot-cloud doesn't touch me."

"Yeah," I agreed. "He does have a potent aura."

"In any case, as I was saying, Stan has access to every part of this base. And this base is enormous. Enormous! You can have no idea! It has no end of lower levels. At some point, the floors are no longer numbered. They use letters, acronyms. Obviously, it's to obscure the depth, so you don't know how far down you are."

"Wow."

"But this bureaucracy, this Switcher center, they only use the top ten levels, and those, only to a limited extent. The rest is just—" She spread her hands in a gesture meaning vast emptiness.

Femke went on talking about the size of the base, its original purpose, and the Cold War. She found it fascinating, and spoke for some time, gesturing and exclaiming. I finished my food and sat brooding, holding my coffee in both hands, but not drinking. My mind was elsewhere.

I was concerned about Laura. I couldn't stop thinking about her. She was obviously a bright girl, but not happy about living in a boy's body. Not happy at all. Obviously distressed about finding herself once again a minor, and not having the power to determine her own fate. My mind replayed pieces of our conversation, and I found myself composing helpful advice I wish I'd had the presence of mind to offer in the moment.

"Hey," Femke called to me, gently at first. Then, "Hey!" with a poke to my thigh. "Where are you, Merope? You seem distracted and disturbed."

"I am," I confessed.

"Don't worry," she said. "You'll learn to navigate this new life of yours. We'll help you, Rowan and I."

"It's not that," I told her. "I mean, thanks for all that — I really appreciate what you're doing, and the fact that you're here. I'm just distracted. I'm concerned about a girl I met here yesterday."

Femke nodded, and I related the whole experience, from seeing the crewcut boy in the library, to realizing she was a girl to her core, to listening to her confused and contradictory conspiracy theories.

Femke confessed, "I haven't heard any of that stuff — but I must admit I'm not au courant with conspiracy theories. Of course it's all nonsense, but perfectly in line with typical paranoid, anti-government fantasies." She chuckled to herself. "Have you ever considered that there may be a nebulous miasma composed of all the common elements of your standard conspiracy theories? Can you picture it just floating in the air throughout history, waiting for a topic, for a focus it can adhere to, and congeal itself around? Then, once that topic is exhausted and gone, it returns to being an untethered miasma once again?"

"Ah... well... I can honestly say, that the idea has never occurred to me."

Femke shook her head and declared, "Don't worry, Merope! The girl will be fine. Certainly after a few sessions, all that crap will be straightened out of her."

"Sessions?" I repeated.

"With her therapist."

"If she *has* a therapist."

"Why wouldn't she? Surely a mental-health professional will spend some time with her. Help her understand, adjust."

"No," I told her. "That won't happen."

She gestured vaguely with her hand. "This... facility... what is it for, then? They must provide counseling. There must be therapists, counselors, on staff. Mental health — it's elementary! How can you say they won't help in that way? Certainly they offered this to you! Not that you need it, but how do they expect disconnected, displaced people to find their feet after this experience? For many, this will be an immense trauma."

"They expect each of us to find our own way."

Femke stared at me, uncomprehending. "That makes no sense," she objected, shaking her head.

"Femke, no one has offered me anything, except for a bottle of water. As far as I've seen and heard, there's no consideration given for mental-health. None at all."

"And yet, someone follows-up each victim at their homes, afterward."

I shook my head. "No. The man who did my intake, he told me quite clearly that no one ever follows up on any Switcher victim. They never have, and I guess they never will."

Femke processed this, then smiled. "Surely there are support groups."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you Americans, the moment something happens to one of you, the first thing you do is create a support group, and the second thing is that you go on TV."

I thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, probably," I admitted.

"And your Laura-girl, or Laura-boy, she also has a advantage over someone like you. A sad advantage, but an advantage still."

"What's that?"

"She will connect to a network of conspiracy people. If not in person, at least online. She will find kindred spirits who will listen to her story, and take her into their arms, at least metaphorically."

I looked at the floor and took a sip of my coffee. "Cold comfort," I commented.

"It's better than being alone in her sorrows," Femke offered.

"Is it?"

Femke gave me an encouraging pat on the knee and said, "At least you, Miss Merope, you can comfort yourself by creating a support group, if there isn't one already! You can collect all the Lauras and Petes of this area and be their shepherd."

Femke was smiling. I had no idea whether she was making fun of me, but at the moment I didn't care. Her encouragement and optimism improved my mood and made me smile.

"I guess I could at least get some t-shirts printed," I joked.

"That's the spirit! In that way, you'll make your fortune."

We both took a deep sip of coffee after that.

"There was something else," I said, changing the subject once again. "For some reason this Laura, her boyfriend Pete, and some homeless guy in blue shorts, they all arrived last night, which was Friday—"

"—So, the Switcher got to them after you and Anson."

"No, that's what I expected! Instead, for some reason, they encountered the Switcher *before* me, before Merope. They got switched on Thursday night."

"What do you make of that?"

"I don't know," I replied. "If I see Laura, I'll try to ask. She is a little spiny, though."

"Spiny?"

"Like a hedgehog... or a porcupine."

Femke thought for a moment, then said some word in Dutch that seemed to clarify things for her.

"Okay," she said, "I will see whether Stan can shed some light on their late arrival. Maybe it's connected to your Anson's late arrival as well?"

"I suppose it's possible. Thanks."

I also mentioned the fanny pack that the Switcher was careful to keep. "The cylinders could have been in there," I speculated.

She shrugged. "It's possible. In any case, it shows that the Switcher was already up to something before he met you. This business with Laura and her friends seems more intentional that his interaction with you."

"True," I agreed.

"Maybe you bumped into him on his way out of town."

 

---

 

After Femke left, I took a shower. Then I dressed in a fresh set of fatigues and headed toward the lounge. I found myself walking quickly, almost angrily, and realized that I was spoiling for a fight. It came out of a sense of frustration and powerlessness. What was doing in this place, after all? Wasting time, certainly. Learning nothing, that's for sure. Could I insist on being let go? No one ever told me, after all, that I couldn't leave.

In Laura's case, by way of contrast, they had told her she couldn't leave. Not until her fate had been decided. It was different, of course. In Pete's body, she was legally a minor, and was obliged to wait until Pete's parents decided whether they'd take her in.

The point I was making (to myself) was that Laura was directly *told* that she couldn't leave. In my case, they asked me. Matt said something like how do you feel about staying for a couple of days? That sounded pretty voluntary.

Next time I saw Femke, I'd have to tell her that if she wanted to leave — or whenever she felt like leaving — I was more than ready to get out of Dodge.

It seemed, though, that Femke was enjoying herself, or at least that she found the place interesting. She didn't appear to have trouble keeping busy.

Maybe I should ask if I could hang around with her; visit the other, more hidden parts of the center.

But for now? I used my access card to open the women's dorm, and stuck my head in, hoping to find the two women who'd been so hostile the day before. Instead, I found the place empty. Empty of people, I mean. There were ten beds, all of them made up, clean and ready for use. The two women were probably back in the outside world. And where do they fit in the daisy chain? I wondered. Before me, most likely. Probably before Laura and Pete, as well.

Or were they just staff? People who worked in the center, taking advantage of the surplus beds for a night?

I sighed. It didn't matter either way. None of it helped me.

The library and cafeteria were empty. I could hear the sound of a ping-pong game coming from the lounge.

It was Laura (in the guise of a lanky, crewcut boy) and Pete (now short and stocky, with light brown hair). I found them intent on the game: unsmiling, competitive. I stood off to the side, well out of play. Neither of them bothered to greet me, so I didn't speak until Laura delivered a powerful spike that caught the very edge of the table before its ricochet carried it to one of the room's far corners.

"Hey, Laura," I offered, as Pete turned to run and fetch the ball.

"How you doing?" she replied, twirling her paddle as she spoke.

"Quick question," I said. "How come, if you were switched on Thursday, you didn't arrive here until Friday night? Did you wait before you called the center?"

"No," she replied, and quickened her words as Pete approached with the ball. "I called the police right away, but they didn't have anybody to bring us here until Friday."

I nodded thoughtfully. Simple answer. Pete tossed the ball to Laura and announced the score. Laura resumed the game by delivering a lightning-fast serve that shot right past Pete.

"Happy?" she asked me.

"Ecstatic," I replied. "Thanks — I'll leave you to your game." I waved to Pete. He smiled and nodded, then asked, "You don't have any cigarettes, do you?"

I shrugged, shook my head, and left. Now I had my answer, and yet once again I'd learned nothing.

After picking up a mug of coffee in the cafeteria, I wandered into the library. I decided, either perversely or ironically, to search for A Room with a View, but couldn't remember the author's name. Instead I ended up with Cakes and Ale by Somerset Maugham. I only picked it because it happened to be lying out on a table. I started reading because a blurb on the back cover proclaimed it "one of the funniest books ever written."

I'm a fast reader, and it's a quick read, but I have to say I got 150 pages into it, before I found anything amusing. And it wasn't even funny! It was only amusing. Even so, by that time, the story had hooked me, and I wanted to know how it all came out, so I moved to the cafeteria and sat near the coffee dispenser.

So... was it "one of the funniest"? No. Not at all. It was engaging. The premise was clever. I liked it, but I only laughed out loud once, and that was at a scribbled note some random reader added. The book quoted Racine: Vénus tout entière à sa proie attachée, and some simple soul must have Google-translated and gotten: "Venus all whole at her prey area of responsibility." My French was rusty, but after a little struggle I got the idea that it was "Venus herself, fastened to her prey."

Still, I stayed with the little book all the way to the end, until the author neatly tied up every loose end — some of which he purposefully left dangling until the very last page in the book.

The story left me in a curious and reflective mood.

It gave me a sense of the author's — or at least the narrator's — kindness, compassion... maybe even tenderness. And the writing was flawless, if I'm any judge.

What was it about? It told the story of a famous writer who'd recently died, and how his upper class friends — lovers of propriety — steadfastly closed their eyes to everything that formed the man, everything that made him interesting, and defined who he was. They wanted a smooth, unoffensive, upper-class portrait; all light, no shadows.

So... again, "one of the funniest"? Not by a long shot. But still... maybe what I liked in it, maybe what I wanted from it for myself, was for someone to see me and understand me, with the same kindness and compassion. Maybe that's all it was.

 

---

 

The day passed slowly. Apart from Laura and Pete, who had no interest in my company, I didn't see another living soul. I traipsed around the floor, which was vast. All I found was one hallway after another. Every hallway was full of doors. Numbered doors, elevator doors, or double doors. I couldn't open any of them. Every door was labeled with numbers or descriptions (such as "LARGE BRIEFING ROOM" or "CLEANING SUPPLIES AND EQUIPMENT") or with acronyms. Most doors were labeled "NAP".

Later, Femke asked Stan about NAP. He told her it meant "No Assigned Purpose."

Femke mentioned that she'd come by at seven so we could have dinner together. I was feeling rather low after a boring day spent alone in an underground bunker, but I tried to not show it. She asked whether I wanted Mexican food again, but I told her I felt like eating a big pile of vegetables. We went together to the cafeteria. Laura and Pete were eating at a table for two, off in the distance, and they didn't bother to look up when we came in. We left them to themselves.

Femke surveyed the food line, amazed at the variety and the volume. "This is an awful lot of food for three people!" she commented.

"I guess the people who work here, eat here as well."

"Even so!"

I chose a large bowl rather than a plate, and piled it with boiled and sautéed vegies. I dumped in potatoes, cabbage, carrots, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, ... and seasoned it all with olive oil and salt. I also grabbed a big chunk of cheese and the end of a baguette, along with two bottles of water.

Femke selected a pair of fat sausages along with a healthy serving of spaghetti with ragu. She sprinkled the pasta liberally with grated parmesan. "What? No wine?" she quipped. Leaning close, she added in an undertone, "I can get us some, if you like."

"No, that's fine," I said. "There's plenty of time for that when I'm out of here."

We sat near the door for some reason. The moment we sat down, Femke shoved a healthy forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, the word muffled by the pasta. She held up one finger, meaning wait, while she chewed and eventually swallowed. "This is quite flavorful!"

"Yeah, the food here is surprising."

"Anyway, I spoke to Rowan. He was in a great hurry, but he told me that he found your Anson."

"Did he? Where? And why isn't Anson here?"

"He couldn't answer that yet. He is still finding out. He said something about a reporting sync." She shook her head.

"Do you mean sync, like synchronization?"

"Yes, of course," she acknowledged. "Synchronization. I don't know what needs to synchronize with what. He actually suggested not telling you, because you'll only have questions for which he has no answers."

I sighed heavily. "I'm getting sick and tired of not being told things."

"I understand," she said. "Only think: once he resolves this sync'ing business, you'll be free like a bird."

I considered what she told me, and asked her, "Hey, Femke. How will you know when I've been released? How can I find you?" I pointed to her phone number on my arm. "Does your phone work down here?"

"It does. Phones, pagers... you can even get the internet if you like. Do you want me to get you a tablet?"

"No, thanks. I just wanted to be sure that once they're done with me, I'll be able to find you."

"Absolutely. Stan assures me they will find me when it's time for you to go. I'm your contact person. It's in your... account... your personal record. They'll call me, and I'll also get an automatic page." Grinning, she held up the black box attached to her waist.

"Did Stan set that up?" I asked her, a little suspicious.

"Sure, yes."

I nodded, and considered for a long minute what I wanted to say — and whether I should say anything at all. Femke had her head down, focused on her spaghetti. The two sausages, some bread, and cheese were on standby. When she consumed the last forkful of pasta, she looked up at me and smiled.

"Femke," I began, tentatively. "I know Stan's been incredibly helpful—"

Femke gave a sharp barking laugh of agreement.

"—and I know you mentioned this Amsterdam connection he imagines you two have—"

"Yeah."

"—he's doing so much for you—" [Here my face began to redden] "—he's probably hoping... or expecting, even... or in any case, wanting—"

Femke laughed and wiped the red sauce from her mouth with a white napkin. She took a healthy swig of water and gave me an open-mouthed grin.

"I know what he wants, Merope," she said, laughing. "He's a man. All men are dogs, when it comes down to this. They hope, they expect, they want."

"But you're not going to sleep with him, are you?"

Femke held my eye and hung fire. When I could stand the suspense no longer, she said, "I haven't decided."

I have to say, I was shocked. I must be naive. After sixty years of life, I was still rather innocent in some things.

"What about Rowan?" I asked in a hushed tone.

She replied, "The Italians have a saying, Occhio non vede, Cuore non duole. Do you know what it means?" I shook my head. "It means that what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't feel."

I was speechless. Femke watched me stew in my shocked feelings for a few moments, then burst into a loud guffaw.

"Oh, Merope! How could I stand to! Such a thing! That man, and his stink! Never, never — and then, never." She laughed and laughed.

"Anyway, Stan is happy. He is wrapped in his little cloud, dreaming of his youth in Amsterdam. He enjoys helping me, in part because he's showing off. He feels this base is his kingdom; that he has boundless riches here. Usually he has no way to show them off. Finally he has someone to boast to and impress. He wants me to ask for things, especially if they are difficult or forbidden."

"Really?" Something clicked in my brain. "Femke, do you think Stan can do something for me?"

She shrugged. "I think he would be delighted. I can only ask."

"When they interviewed and examined me, I asked for information about Merope, but they wouldn't give me any. Do you think Stan can get it for me?" I spoke in an undertone, furtively. I felt like a criminal, subverting the system.

"What sort of information?"

"Well, like... everything, really: Tax returns — all her tax returns. Medical information." I scratched my head. Femke got out a blue 3x5 card and a pen and began writing. "Um, bank account... I mean, bank statements — credit card... can they do a credit check? email address..."

I tapped my forehead, as though it would help me remember. "Oh! Phone number! What's her phone number? and her carrier!"

Femke, scribbling furiously, caught up with my list. "Anything else?"

"Oh, yeah, I suppose, um, debts? police record? Rowan said she didn't have any, but it wouldn't hurt to check again."

"These people here have resources, Merope. Serious resources. I think they can get into anything. Everything."

"And if Stan could put all of that on a USB stick, that would be great."

Femke grinned. "Your wish will be his command."

"Can you ask him about getting my birth certificate, too?"

"Sure." She shrugged and grinned. Then she picked up a knife and fork and attacked her sausages.

 

---

 

I slept a lot better that night than the night before. I took my used fatigues and spread them along the crack at the bottom of the door, leaving my room in near-complete darkness. There was still light filtering around the edges of the door, and the red numbers on the clock glowed all night, but I felt as though I was in a cave. A safe, warm, dry cave. The word atavistic came to mind. As I turned it over in my mind, asking myself whether the term applied to the way I was feeling, I slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

---

 

The next morning, Femke woke me by knocking on my door. Not tapping, knocking. "Merope, get dressed. Grab your bag. It's time to go."

"Do you mean—"

"Your Mr Anson finally reported in. You're free to go."

"Is he here? Can I see him?"

"He's not here. Maybe back in town you can see him. We'll see what Rowan says. We can call on the way. Come on, let's go."

Still a little groggy with sleep, and puzzled by her sudden... anxiety to leave. She'd shifted from one extreme to another: from relaxed, happy, go-with-the-flow, to hurry up, there's no time, let's get the hell out of here.

"Can I take a shower first?" I asked her.

She sniffed at the air around me, left and right. "You smell fine," she told me. "You can take all the showers you like after."

I started pulling a new set of fatigues on, and noticed that she was dressed in her own clothes. "No more camouflage?" I teased.

When she didn't respond, I picked up my bag — Merope's bag — and asked, "How about breakfast?"

"Oh. Uh — we can stop on the way."

"Could we get that Mexican breakfast again?"

"NO!" she exclaimed.

"What the hell, Femke? Did something happen?"

She glanced around her, as if to see whether anyone was listening. Then she snatched the pager from her hip.

"Do you think that fucker can track this?"

"Stan? I don't know? I suppose it's possible."

She threw the device on my bed, and repeated, "Let's go."

"Um — I'm supposed to change the sheets—"

"Fuck that! We're out of here!" She grabbed my arm and pulled me, and not very gently, into the hall and away.

She led me through a series of turns, from one hallway to the next. She told me later that there were indications on the wall, pale red arrows that I hadn't noticed.

At last we arrived at an elevator. She stopped abruptly and stared at it for a moment. She was obviously thinking, considering something — I had no idea what, so I reached forward to hit the elevator-call button.

She grabbed my arm to prevent me. "We're taking the stairs," she said. "Try to be quiet. I'll tell you everything in the car."

I was already getting the idea. Stan must have tried something, and it freaked her out.

I silently followed her up several flights of stairs until we arrived in a parking garage. There were a dozen or so cars parked on that level. I saw across the way the entrance that Matt mentioned. Stan was waiting there, watching a set of elevators, smoking a joint.

"Fucker," Femke hissed, and put her finger to her lips. I nodded.

Quietly we made our way through the garage, up one more parking level. Rowan's car was sitting in a dark corner, half-hidden by a large square pillar. The doors were slightly open. "Don't close the door until I've started the engine," she cautioned. We got in, buckled up, closed and locked the doors, and drove up and out, back into the real world.

"Fucker!" Femke exclaimed again, through gritted teeth, then "Fucker! Fucker! Fucker!" pounding the steering wheel with each cry.

 

Merope, Maybe : 9 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"Never say 'no' to pie.
No matter what, wherever you are, diet-wise or whatever, you know what?
You can always have a small piece of pie, and I like pie.
I don't know anybody who doesn't like pie.
If somebody doesn't like pie, I don't trust them.
I'll bet you Vladimir Putin doesn't like pie."
— Al Roker

---

 

The car bucked and the undercarriage scraped the sidewalk as our car shot out of the processing center's garage. The tires screeched and squealed as Femke threw a hard left onto the road outside. My heart shot into my throat at her abrupt, reckless maneuver. Normally I would have shouted Watch out! or Be careful! or some equally useless warning. This time, instead, when I opened my mouth to shout a warning or a protest, the force of acceleration threw me back against my seat, and the words caught in my throat. Femke hadn't looked — she hadn't looked at all — before exiting. She didn't check for cars or pedestrians before cutting across the sidewalk or pulling onto the street. If a mother with a baby carriage had happened to step in front of us, the mother, the baby, and the carriage would have gotten steamrolled into oblivion.

Luckily there was no one on the sidewalk, no one on the street. The car fishtailed right and left before settling straight on.

White-knuckled, Femke tore down the main street and — almost as an afterthought — tore up the entrance to I-60 South. One of the wheels bounced and bounded over the curb before we shot like a rocket onto the highway. My head jerked right and left, looking for dangers, even though I had no way of preventing anything from happening. Happily, the highway was as empty of traffic as the street outside the processing center. Femke cut across the width of the highway, taking possession of the fast lane. I watched the speedometer rise... to 40... 50... 60... still within the speed limit.

The car gave a remarkably smooth ride... until the needle crept north of 60. Above that threshold, it vibrated — a clear indicator that this vehicle wasn't built for speed. At first the trembling was light. As the needle pushed higher and higher, the vibrations came harder and harder. The car shook and threatened to come apart. At least, that's how it felt. I pictured the wheels separating from the chassis, the doors and hood flying off, pieces of the engine tearing through the air. I easily imagined the two of us, cartoon-like, still in our seats, flying through the air, Femke still holding the steering wheel, but the rest of the car gone, left as scrap on the highway behind us. We hit 70... then 80...

My eyes grew wider as we narrowed the distance between us and two cars far ahead of us. They started as tiny black dots in the distance, but quickly came into view, until we whipped past them, as though they were standing still. Femke, unblinking, stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel as tight as she could with both hands. Her knuckles were bone white.

"Femke," I called in a gentle voice, "Femke, you need to slow down."

She gave me a long look, nodded, took a deep breath, and eased up on the gas. We rapidly decelerated until the car stopped trembling. She slipped over to the center lane.

"I needed to put some miles between myself and that place," she explained.

I nodded, and almost went with the shopworn I understand, but experience with Cleo taught me that I understand could be as much a trigger phrase as Calm down. No one likes to be told to calm down. It makes it sound like the real problem is their agitation, and not the thing that got them agitated in the first place.

In the same way, "I understand" trivializes the other person's feelings. Did I really understand? Probably not. I could guess, but I was in no way certain of what had happened to her.

So I went with something more neutral.

"Femke, why don't stop somewhere and have breakfast?" In very convenient timing, my stomach growled, seconding my request. "We can catch our breath. We can talk... if you *want* to talk... and I haven't eaten. Have you?"

Femke gave me another sidelong glance. She said, "Fine. But let's find a place off the highway." Then she added, "There isn't anything on this road anyway. Remember the trip up? We couldn't even find a gas station."

I borrowed her phone and consulted the GPS. "If we take the next exit, there's a diner, but it's 17 miles west of the highway."

"Sounds perfect," she replied.

We coasted slowly through the exit, and drove away from the highway, following a narrow country road. It was just barely two lanes, and the edges of the paving blended smoothly first to sand and pebbles, then to dirt and grass. At times it was so heavily overhung with trees, it felt like a living tunnel. The demographic composition of the trees changed with the miles. As we penetrated farther and farther west, we saw ever more evergreens, and fewer deciduous. In other words, the world became more green around us; we left the wildly colored leaves of autumn behind.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the diner — nearly missing it, smothered as it was by thick pines, their branches close, resting on the diner's roof.

Maude's Diner was painted fire-engine red, with a gray roof. If it weren't for the red, we'd have driven right past. The building obviously began its life as a one-story cottage, and later underwent a diner retrofit. The windows were still in a residential style, what builders call "six over one": six small panes in the upper sash, one large pane in the lower. The only clues to its identity as a diner were the sign and the entrance, which was a glass-and-metal door.

"They're going to have to trim those back," I observed, more to myself than to her.

"Trim? Back?" Femke repeated. She shot me a confused look. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing," I assured her. "It's just the trees... they're so overgrown."

She pulled into the parking lot, and followed as it curved behind the building. There were three spaces back there, close to a dumpster. I almost said something about the smell, but then it struck me that Femke might be trying to keep the car ouf of sight from the road.

She parked in the space closest to the dumpster, shut off the engine, and climbed out. I quickly followed, and went around the car to her side. "I need to shake this feeling," she muttered, and began an uncoordinated, leaping dance. She let her arms flail, she bounced on the balls of her feet, lolling her head down, left, right. She arched her spine and crunched forward, hugging herself. She jumped, stiff-legged, three times, hard. She shook herself and let out a soft crying growl. Out of breath, she straightened up and opened her arms. I understood: I moved in and held her.

"Tight, tight," she whispered. "Tighter! Oh!"

I rocked her in my arms, closing my eyes to try to feel her feeling — as well as I could. Time was suspended for a spell... I don't know how long... before I let go.

 

---

 

The diner was homey inside, and much larger than it seemed from outside. There were six tables and a counter seating six. The setup was that of a traditional diner: a waitress behind the counter; a display of pies at one end; the coffee station set in the wall at the far end, and a passthrough window to a tiny kitchen where a white-hatted man worked with his head down.

"Hello, girls," the waitress called in a cheery voice. "Welcome to Maude's."

"Thanks," I replied. "Are you Maude?"

"That I am!" she chirped. She gave a concerned look at Femke (who was clearly out of sorts), and told us, "There's a picnic table outside, if you girls want to have your meal out there. It's quiet and it's all yours."

"I didn't see it from the road," I said.

"Sounds perfect," Femke said, after clearing her throat to talk.

After a brief discussion, we ordered two blue-plate specials and a pot of coffee. We paid and exited through a side door: a green, wood-framed screen door mounted on a spring. It shut with an abrupt snap! behind us.

Directly outside we found a small patio paved with flagstones and covered in brown pine needles. Some broken chairs sat rusting in a corner, but the massive, heavy picnic table in the center of the patio was perfectly serviceable. The small, hidden alcove was hemmed in by thick pine branches on the front and side. It was only open toward the back, giving us a lovely view of the dumpster and a small slice of our car. Femke seemed reassured by the privacy. She poked and peeked through the branches, out toward the road.

"You don't think Stan would come after us, do you?" I asked her, half joking, half serious.

"That clown is capable of anything," she told me. She turned her head and looked off in the distance to the right of the dumpster. "I love the smell of pine trees," she said. "It's a unique aroma, isn't it? There is the piney resin, sure, but there is a hint of citrus as well. Don't you find?"

I wasn't sure whether I "found." I tried to focus my nose, if such a thing is possible; tried to isolate something I could call citrus-sy.

Before I had a chance to either get there or give up, Maude emerged with our food. She managed to carry two loaded plates, a pot of coffee, napkins, flatware, a basket of toast, and a small bowl of individual butter pats. She made it seem effortless.

With a series of fluid motions, she transferred the load of plates and articles from her arms to the table, with nary a slip or a spill. Then she told us, "If you need more coffee or more food, just stick your head in the door and give a holler." Femke sat down and smiled at Maude.

Maude smiled back, nodding, and added, "When you're done with all this, I recommend a slice of our strawberry-rhubarb pie. It's homemade, and is not to be missed. It's the best way to top off your breakfast."

"Sounds great," I responded, nodding.

After Maude returned inside, Femke consulted her phone. "This pie... Aardbei... Rabarber... It sounds a very strange combination."

"It's traditional," I said. "And it's very good. We should go for it."

The food was excellent, and Femke ate with surprising gusto. She was so obviously enjoying herself, I couldn't bring myself to spoil the moment by asking what had happened with Stan.

This particular "blue plate special" featured chicken-fried steak and eggs, sunny-side-up, along with a pile of sautéed onions, grits, and a great big homemade biscuit.

I felt a little cheated by the fact that it was actually served on an old-style blue plate — cheated, because I was looking forward to explaining to Femke why it was called "blue plate" when the plate wasn't actually blue. Of course, the plate being literally blue, she never asked the question.

What she asked instead was "Why all this bread if we already have a biscuit?"

I didn't honestly know, but before I could cook up some plausible answer, Maude emerged, bustling out with apologies: she'd forgotten the white "gravy" meant to be poured over the biscuits. She also swapped our half-empty coffeepot for a fresh, full one, and set down two pieces of pie, "in case you forgot to ask."

After we'd both put away a healthy portion of food, and swallowed a great quantity of strong, good-tasting coffee, Femke began telling me her story.

"Stan didn't want me to leave," she said. "Ever." She wiped coffee from her upper lip, and looked down at the table.

"I didn't take him seriously, of course. I saw him as nothing more than a stoner. A buffoon. A loser with delusions of grandeur. Instead, I strung him along, because he had access. Access to everything in that place. And he offered me everything! Money, US citizenship, a US passport, a new identity if I wanted it... And jewelry! He actually held out handfuls of necklaces, pearl, silver, gold... and told me to take my pick. I laughed and said I couldn't."

"But... where... how? He couldn't possibly give you any of that," I pointed out.

"Oh, no, Merope, you're very wrong. He could have given me all of that and more." She looked me in the eye as she took a deep sip of coffee.

"He wanted me to be his Persephone, he said. He considers himself a king up there."

"A king, in that bunker?" I scoffed. "Not much of a king, living in a hole in the ground."

"Oh, Merope, you have no idea. He is a criminal, many times over. That base is full of government supplies, which he sells."

"What? Old K-rations?"

"I don't know what K-rations are, but I do know that he sells material that belongs to your government, and then he orders more to replace it. Which he also sells."

"I don't know what that could be, but I can't imagine there's a lot of money in it. And those necklaces — they can't possibly be government surplus."

"They aren't, of course. They were taken from Switcher victims."

"Stolen?"

"No... just... oh, it doesn't matter. The point is, there is lots of stuff in that place, and he can do with it as he pleases."

"Sooner or later the government will catch up with him."

Femke gave a sharp, scoffing bark of a laugh. "He says, 'Not as long as I stay within my budget.' So there is that. And yet, there is something else he has to sell, and that is false identities. Or maybe not even false. This is real. Because he is part of the Switcher Processing team, he can create new papers, new birth certificates, drivers licenses, passports, out of nothing. And as long as he doesn't create more identities than there are Switcher victims, he says he can't be caught.

"He sells these identities to criminals, to drug dealers, to anyone — even to the worst people on earth."

"Wow."

"But, his real cash crop is marijuana."

"He's growing marijuana down there?"

"Yes. There are entire levels down there, with plants as far as the eye can see, under special lamps, probably paid for by your tax dollars. He feeds them, he waters them, with government money. He lights them with government power.

"And then... do you remember the Mexican breakfast I brought you? He has migrant workers who tend the plants, who harvest the crop, and prepare it for sale."

"I can't believe it!" My jaw literally hung open in surprise and shock.

"He says he pays them well. Many of them send money home. None of them know where they are. Even if they knew the location of the bunker, they have no idea which level they are on. They come and go on busses with darkened windows, and they live underground for an entire growth cycle. After each harvest, one group leaves and another comes in."

I fell speechless. Femke stopped talking for a bit, and without thinking, cut off the pointed end of her pie slice, and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes brightened. "Let's leave the story for a bit while we eat this wonderful pie," she said. And so we did.

In spite of her resolution, Femke stopped halfway through dessert to tell me, "He did make that USB stick for you. It has everything you could ever want to know about Merope Goddard. Oh, and he said — about the birth certificate — there is a picture of the certificate on there, a PDF, but if you want a real paper copy, you will have to get that yourself. A real birth certificate has to be notarized."

"Oh, right," I acknowledged. "Thanks."

She shrugged. "It's in your duffel bag, in the car."

"My duffel bag? What duffel bag?"

"Oh!" she laughed. "I thought I told you! Do you know how these processing centers take your clothes and do some silly tests with them?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Well, they have rooms and rooms of clothes and shoes and bags and hats and... everything! And it's all sorted by size."

"That's crazy."

"It certainly is. So... while I was there, I spent some hours putting together a wardrobe for you. Just the basics. I wasn't greedy. It should carry you for several months, or longer, depending on how you are with clothes."

She picked up another piece of pie on her fork, and stopped meditatively with her fork poised in the air. "The, um, USB is in a little pocket... huh—" (she stared off into space for a moment, then) "—he had one of the workers carry the bag up to my car... to Rowan's car... Oh, shit!"

Femke dropped her fork with a clatter. She jumped up from the table and opened the door to the diner. Maude immediately appeared. Femke, breathless, said, "Maude, we need to check something in our car. Could you please leave the food on the table? We're not done — and the pie is wonderful!"

"Sure, hon," Maude assured her. "Everything all right?"

"It will be!" Femke exclaimed. "Merope, come!"

We dashed to the car, and she opened the trunk. "Don't touch anything!" she cautioned me. "That Stan — that son of a bitch — he said he had presents for you and me, and I'm just now thinking what those presents might be."

The space in Rowan's trunk was mainly taken by a large black duffel bag. Shoved to the side were Rowan's things: two sets of blue coveralls, a stack of police evidence bags, small note cards and marking pens, and a box of disposable blue nitrile gloves. "Police work," Femke explained, gesturing. "Crime scenes." She extracted two gloves from the box and slipped them on. She turned the duffel bag slightly to get access to a small pocket in the front, which she unzipped. She reached inside and pulled out a small memory stick. "Here's your USB thingy, see?" she said, and handed it to me. She ran her hand around the small pocket to make sure it was empty. I dropped the USB into the pocket and she zipped it shut.

Next, she opened the big zipper at the top of the bag. Immediately, we saw what the presents were: they were two kilos of marijuana: twin packages, wrapped in clear plastic. "That bastard!" Femke exclaimed. She picked up the two packs and looked around for a place to dispose of them. I could see she considered for a moment hurling them into the woods. Then, on second thought, she took two steps toward the dumpster and dropped the bundles carefully inside, as if they were a pair of bombs.

That done, Femke carefully searched the bag for more dope (or other surprises). She found none.

"God!" she exclaimed, showing me her hands. "Look at me: I'm trembling!" I showed her my own arms, covered in gooseflesh all the way from my fingertips to my shoulders.

She zipped up the bag, closed the trunk, tossed the gloves into the dumpster, and we returned to our table.

Femke picked up her phone. "I'd better tell Rowan that we escaped."

I couldn't hear Rowan's side of the conversation, except as a sequence of sounds. Even so, his side was clearly an outpouring of concern. Femke's side was mainly reassurance, without much detail. She managed to hide her agitation and anger; she kept her tone chatty and positive. She told him that everything was fine; that the two of us had stopped for breakfast and were eating a wonderful pie made of "Aardbei and something." He pressed her with questions I couldn't hear, to which she several times replied that she'd explain everything later.

They spent a long minute exchanging affectionate phrases, ending with "I miss you, too!"

She set down her phone with a sigh.

"So! Merope, I will tell you now. This is what happened last night. Rowan called me yesterday evening — or he tried to call me. Of course, I had no idea this was the case, but I did notice there was no signal in the room where I slept, or in the hallway outside. I asked Stan about it. He told me he'd open a ticket with his network team to get it fixed right away, and not to worry — he would let me know the moment your Anson showed up."

She made a scoffing hmmph! sound, then: "Which was a lie! As it happened, your Mr Anson was registered as a Switcher victim early Saturday morning."

"Saturday morning!" I exclaimed, in shock and disbelief. "But that's when *I* arrived! Is he still at the processing center now?" As weird as the center was, I wanted to go back, to meet the person now living in my body, but at the same time I felt quite sure that wild horses couldn't drag Femke within a mile of the place.

"No," Femke corrected me in a firm tone. "He never came to the center. There is some kind of—" She waved one hand in frustration, as if she could somehow snatch the right word from the air. She couldn't, and let off a phrase in Dutch that told me nothing. As if that clarified things, she continued with, "And then comes a lapsus, a slipping... with synchronization enzovoort."

Well, enzovoort sounded a lot like "and so forth," so I that's how I took it. It didn't seem like a good time to be asking a lot of questions, especially over small details.

Femke smacked the table with the palm of her hand and declared, "Rowan can tell you all that. Later." She grimaced. She gritted her teeth. "I'm too angry to find all the words." She took a deep, fiery breath and looked me in the eye, briefly.

"Stan knew about Anson. I'm sure he knew. I wonder whether he cooked up the synchronization split-down himself. Yet, he knew Rowan would call me and tell me everything."

I assumed that split-down meant "breakdown" or "screw-up," or something along those lines. I didn't interrupt to ask.

"Stan, creepy Stan, wanted to keep me there, forever. Last night, he tried to stay close, to not let me wander off. This was when he showed me the jewelry — I told you — which was very creepy. It felt that he offered me jewels, stolen from the dead." She shuddered.

"He wouldn't stop offering me drink; he kept on: wine, tequila, beer, but I wouldn't drink. He offered me smoke: marijuana, hashish, even opium. But I don't smoke. He had pills, which I rejected out of hand." A light laugh played across her face. "It irritated him. It made him angry. I didn't fit his imaginary picture of Amsterdam. All the while he made suggestive remarks, and asked me was I really Dutch, truly from Amsterdam. He told stories of the wild night life he knew back there, back then. He spoke as if Amsterdam is the most dissolute city on earth, where nothing is forbidden. He said there was something wrong with me for not wanting to unbend and be wild."

As she spoke, Femke started tensing up, all over. Then she caught herself, shook it off, and calmed herself.

"At last, I was done: I became tired and bored. Above all, I'd gotten sick of Stan, sick of the center, sick of waiting for your Mr Anson. I wanted to go home. And I needed to use the bathroom.

"Stan's workers were eating and drinking and dancing. Some of them played guitar... it might have been nice, if it weren't in that basement of a bunker. In any case, I left, out into the hallway. I wanted to be alone, so I took the stairs up one level. Then, on a whim, I went up one more flight of stairs.

"I took my time. I enjoyed the quiet. I looked at my phone and saw two missed calls from Rowan, but I decided to take them in my room, and made my way back downstairs.

"I didn't mean to stop at the room where Stan and his workers were, but when I came out of the stairwell, I heard a man in a high voice singing Guantanamera. Do you know that song?"

"Sure," I said. "I don't know what the words mean, but I've heard it."

"I never paid any attention to it," Femke told me, "It always seemed so old. But in that moment... there was something in the way he sang that touched my heart. I don't speak Spanish, so I couldn't understand, but it filled me with nostalgia..."

"You were homesick," I suggested.

"Yeah," she agreed, "but then I caught sight of Stan, so I turned on my heel and left. I went immediately to my room. I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed. I took out my phone to call Rowan, but again, there was no signal. I didn't make anything of it; I was only irritated. I decided to call Rowan first thing in the morning, and I fell deeply asleep."

She pushed her fingertips down into the table top. I half-expected them to penetrate the heavy, hard wood.

Femke pressed her lips tightly together with a grim expression. "Close to morning, I suddenly woke. My back was toward the door, but I heard it open. I saw the light from the hall, and I knew right away it was Stan. He slipped in, silent as a cat. He might have taken me by surprise if it weren't for his pungent aroma. You know how badly he stinks of weed; he carries it like a heavy cloud.

"He tried to lie on top of me, to kiss me, to put his arms around me, but I fought. I fought hard. I hit him with my elbows and fists. I kicked and scratched. I bit his hand. I tried to bite his face, and that scared him. I cracked my head against his, as if he was a big stupid soccer ball.

"At last, he fell off me, onto the floor. I could see that I hurt him. I kicked him as he lay there. I kicked him with all my strength. I grabbed my things and ran from the room. This time I went *down* two flights — I didn't think he'd expect that, and ha! I got a signal. So I called Rowan. I told him what happened. Of course, he wanted to come and beat Stan senseless." She laughed. "And he told me that your Mr Anson had been found."

I shook my head, uncomprehending.

Femke continued, "Rowan suggested that I first move my car, hidden, but closer to the exit, and then go find you."

She gave me a grim smile. "And here we are."

"Yes," I replied, "Here we are! I'm sorry you went through all that."

She shrugged. "It's not your fault. You don't have to be sorry."

"I'm not apologizing!" I retorted, a little testily. "I'm just... I only mean that I wish it hadn't happened to you!"

She had no answer to that.

After a bit of silence we stepped back into the diner and bought a strawberry-rhubarb pie to share with Rowan.

 

---

 

About fifteen minutes after we returned to the highway, I noticed a state trooper a few miles behind us. I mentioned it to Femke, who checked her speed. "He has nothing to do with us," she said.

But she was wrong. Without any apparent hurry, the trooper caught up with us, and once he was on our tail, he started cycling the red and blue lights atop his cruiser. He gave a sharp wup! wup! with his siren. Femke slowed, pulled onto the shoulder, and put the car into park. She fished her drivers license out of her bag and asked me to get the insurance and registration papers from the glove box.

As the trooper approached, Femke rolled down her window. He was tall, with an athletic build. He wasn't wearing a hat or sunglasses, so I could see he had kind eyes, but he didn't smile. The kind eyes were hard.

"Please turn off the engine," he said. Femke complied. Then, "License and registration." Femke handed him her license, along with the insurance and registration. He glanced at the insurance paper, and handed it back to Femke, who handed it back to me.

The trooper bent down and looked me in the face. "You, too," he said.

"But I'm not driving," I pointed out.

"Are you refusing to show me your identification?" he asked.

I didn't like the sound of that, and I was pretty sure it wasn't legal for him to ask. Even so, I produced my license and handed it over.

"Omaha," he observed. "My aunt Jessie lives in Omaha."

"Oh, maybe I know her," I quipped. "Maybe we're related." I don't know why I needed to be a smartass in that moment. It just kind of came out. Probably it was nerves. The trooper gave me a level look that told me this was no time for jokes.

"Who is Rowan Brissard?" he asked, reading the name off the registration.

"He's my boyfriend," Femke answered.

"And you're Dutch," the trooper observed.

"Yes."

I leaned forward and asked, "Officer, why did you stop us?"

He didn't reply. He simply looked from my face to Femke's and back again, as if there was something to see, something written there. I began to open my mouth again, but before a sound came out, the trooper said, "I'd like you both to step out of the car. Are either of you armed?"

I know both our eyes widened at that. I stammered out a "No," while Femke, resolute, answered, "Of course not."

He had us lean on the trunk of Rowan's car, and gave us a quick patdown. Then he shepherded us into the back seat of his cruiser. As most people know, the back seat of most police cars can't be opened from the inside.

Before he shut the door, I put my hand on it, holding it open. It was a symbolic move: if he gave a little shove, the door would have shut. But he waited a moment as I said, "I demand to know what's going on here!"

"I'm going to have you ladies sit tight here while I conduct a search of your vehicle," he replied, and began once again to gently close the door.

"Don't you need a warrant for that?" I challenged.

"Not if I have probable cause," he countered, and shut the door before I could say anything more.

A light went on in my head, "Hey!" I exclaimed to Femke, "I think—"

Femke made a chopping motion with her hand. "Quiet!" she commanded. "Don't say a word. Do not say a single word."

It made me angry, but I did as I was told. The two of us sat there, each of us seething for our own reasons, as we watched the trooper pop open the trunk and unzip the duffel bag. I expected him to dump out the contents, but instead he sifted through the clothes with both hands, taking his time, thoroughly feeling his way through my new wardrobe. He unzipped the little pocket in front and found the little USB stick. He held it up, looked at it, gave it an experimental sniff, and put it back where he'd found it.

He examined the rest of the trunk. He opened the back door on the passenger side and explored the back seat. He popped the bench out of place, poked around underneath, and pushed the bench back into place. "I didn't know you could do that," I marveled. He ran his fingers all over the ceiling. He rapped on the doors. He shined his flashlight into the wheelwells, and opened the hood for a look at the engine.

I had to bite my tongue a dozen times to keep from saying anything.

At one point, the trooper stopped for a conversation with the microphone attached to his shoulder.

His search was unhurried. Femke and I continued our silence.

When at last the trooper closed the hood, the trunk, and all four doors, he returned to free us from his cruiser.

He told us by way of explanation, "We had a tip this morning that two women would be driving south this morning in a blue Volkswagen Golf, carrying a duffel bag filled with drugs."

At first, neither of us said anything, but I couldn't resists. I told him, "Sorry to disappoint."

He actually chuckled! Then he looked to Femke and asked, "Why didn't you tell me that your boyfriend's in law enforcement?"

She considered for a moment before answering. "I thought it would make me sound suspicious."

The trooper and I burst into laughter. Femke glanced from him to me and back again, seeming irritated and a little puzzled. To this day I have no idea whether she was joking. At the time she simply looked annoyed, but I confess that Femke's not an easy person to read.

We stood there in the sunlight on the shoulder of the road and watched until the trooper's cruiser disappeared in the distance.

Femke gave a disappointed scoff. "You see what a fucker that Stan is, don't you."

"Good thing we stopped for that pie, huh?" I replied.

She frowned, looking puzzled.

"So you could take out the drugs," I explained.

She looked down, kicked at a pebble, and grunted in assent.

After a moment I added, "We should have offered the trooper a slice of pie." She gazed at me in disbelief, so I offered, "As a show of good faith!"

"You Americans!" she groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically.

Even so... I caught a glimmer of amusement in the corner of her mouth.

 

Merope, Maybe : 10 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

---

 

Thankfully, the rest of our trip passed without incident. Even so, Femke was thoroughly spooked by our brush with the law, and carefully stayed five miles below the speed limit. It was a quiet trip: neither of us felt in the mood to talk. In spite of my goofing and joking after the trooper drove away, I was quite shaken by the fact that we'd been pulled over. It was the first time I'd ever been locked in the back of a police cruiser, and the first time I've had to submit to a search. Although the trooper was friendly and kind afterward, the experience left me with a sense of powerlessness, vulnerability, and fear. We'd had a narrow escape: if it wasn't for Femke's sudden intuition about Stan's "presents" the two of us would have ended up behind bars. The police would impound Rowan's car, and he'd no doubt suffer some fallout as well.

Neither of us commented on the obvious fact that Stan had called in the anonymous tip, either from revenge or to put us in a state where he could "rescue" us. Who knows how far his corrupt tentacles could reach?

As the miles piled up behind us, I came to feel the same desire Femke expressed earlier: to put some miles between me and that place... and that man.

Femke once again surprised me by her navigational skills. Harmish isn't that big a town, but it has five exits off I-60, and she got off at the last one, the exit least familiar to me. She expertly negotiated the tight network of streets that brought us into the heart of Teteree, also known as "Old Harmish." I'd visited this part of town, but I clearly didn't know it half as well as Femke.

Here the streets are paved with cobblestones and lit by wrought-iron gas lamps. The entire neighborhood is a historic district; a throwback to the early 1800s. Streets are narrow. Buildings are constructed of brick and stone, packed densely side by side.

Femke threaded the car through an awkward corner into an alleyway that led to a parking garage, built before any of of the landmark restrictions were imposed.

We carried the duffel bag between us, each taking a handle. Femke's apartment was four blocks away, in an old brick row house. She lived on the boutique level, meaning her front door was a few steps down from the sidewalk, cut into the side of a short staircase that led upward to the building's real front door.

Not that I've known her very long, but until this moment, I hadn't given a thought to what Femke did, or does, for a living.

But... just let me say — that, as Anson, even at the peak of my earning power, a home in Teteree was decidedly out of my reach. A few years back, Cleo and I calculated that our combined incomes could give us a toehold in that neighborhood, but at the loss of our front and back yard, and more than half of our square footage. Worse still, the homeowners association fees for all the places we looked at would equal (or exceed!) our mortgage payments.

A place in Teteree is more than a status symbol: it's a luxury few can afford.

So, to see Femke, a woman in her twenties, here — it set me back on my heels.

"How big is this place?" I asked her.

"85 square meters," she answered. When I scratched my chin, not having any idea how to work out the equivalent, she grinned and added, "900 square feet."

"Okay," I said. "And do you mind if I ask what the rent is here?"

"Rent?" she asked, as if unfamiliar with the word. "My father *bought* this place for me."

"Oh! nice!" I exclaimed. (It was nice that her father bought her place — that's what I meant. I consoled myself by noticing that the apartment itself was fairly basic. It was okay. Everything was good, but nothing was showy or obviously expensive. In Teteree, what you pay for is location.)

"There is a second bedroom," she informed me. "You can stay for a while. I'll show you."

Femke gave me a quick tour of the place: her bedroom (which was dark and close to the front), the living room, the washer and drier, the kitchen...

She touched a laptop that sat on the dining table. "My computer," she announced. A yellow Post-It note read merope / changeme. "Courtesy of Rowan," she explained. "He set up an account for you. You can use this computer to look at your USB drive and do all your Merope research. Until you get your own computer, of course."

She pushed open the door to a small but well-appointed bathroom. "There is only one bathroom," she pointed out. "So, no dawdling."

Before she opened the final door, the door of the second bedroom, she informed me, "I warn you: this room is very small. Also, Rowan told me that he found a bed for you. So, no guarantees! Let's see how well he did." She pushed open the door, a tall door like the others, with five horizontal panes of white frosted glass, and revealed a camp bed: a sad metal thing, with a mattress about four inches thick. The bed's main feature was obvious at a glance: the two ends could be folded up to meet vertically in the middle, making it about the size of a bureau. Like a bureau on wheels: it could be rolled to a corner when it wasn't needed.

"Ah," was her only comment.

"It's fine," I declared. "I'm thankful to have someplace to stay."

"Okay," Femke replied, in a doubtful tone. "I have words for him."

The two envelopes that I'd left with Rowan lay on the bed: the one with the money and the other with the fake IDs.

"He was supposed to make you a set of keys," she observed. "Well, that is for later, then."

 

---

 

Femke dug into the duffel bag and put together an outfit for me: a pair of casual white sandals, denim shorts, and a sleeveless top in a color I want to call "mustard green": imagine the muddy yellow color of mustard, but green instead of yellow. That's the color I'm talking about.

We each took showers, dressed, fixed our hair, and — in the interest of time — she quickly did my makeup again. "Last time," she cautioned me. "From now on, your face is your job."

We drove Rowan's car downtown, to the City Hall area, and parked in the big underground garage. Femke drove around for a bit, even though there were plenty of open spaces. At last she gave a soft, grunted ha! and pulled into a narrow space between a dirty yellow car and a concrete wall. I had a little trouble squeezing out on my side, and was more than a little puzzled. What was so great about this parking space? It was nothing but inconvenient, as far as I could see.

When we got out of the car, Femke stood behind the yellow car next to ours and laid her hand on its trunk for a moment. When she lifted her hand, she left a perfectly clear handprint, five fingers splayed. She glanced at her palm, then showed it to me. Naturally, it was brown with dirt. Grinning, she clapped her hands against each other until the dirt was mainly gone. Then with her finger, she wrote on the trunk, MAAK ME SHOON.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Can't you tell?" she cackled. "It means CLEAN ME! Do you think the owner will get the message?"

"I would think so," I agreed, still more than a little bewildered by her antics. Grinning, she took a few steps back, away from the car, and pointed to its dusty license plate.

"Nebraska," I read. And a bumper sticker: "We Don't Coast." I frowned, not understanding. Then a light came on in my head. "Oh! Is this *my* car?"

"Yes it is!" Femke exclaimed, laughing and clapping her hands. "And please: your first job as owner is to wash your car. Wash it, before you bring it anywhere near my house!"

As we walked toward the elevator exit, she took a handy wipe from her bag and used it to clean her hand. "You would think that Rowan would have felt the need to drive through a car wash. A simple thing, but no. He doesn't do it with his own car, as you can see. Well! You know how men are! You will also find it low on gas, I have no doubt."

Somehow, in spite of her words and her tone, I felt sure that Femke was joking or teasing — and even expressing affection for Rowan, in her own way. In any case, it was good-natured. I had that feeling.

"By the way," Femke told me as she selected the button for ground level, "We won't talk about Stan during this lunch of ours. Or any of the unpleasantness at the center. We can save all that for later, as a private matter, and enjoy our lunch together now. Okay?"

 

---

 

In case you haven't guessed, we were meeting Rowan for lunch. Rowan and his partner, Javier. Today they were both required to testify in a criminal case being argued in Municipal Court. The court building, like several other official buildings, were decoratively clustered around City Hall Square Park, a lovely little park with an ungainly name.

Rowan told Femke to meet by the fountain — he meant the newer fountain, the cooler fountain. The old fountain, which was almost as old as Harmish itself, is a sprawling, ugly affair: three concrete bowls, each with a heavy-handed floral design. The smallest was uppermost, spilling into the middle one; the middle spilling into the massive, bottom one. On a hot day, people will dangle their feet in the water, or even wade into the lower pool, but it has to be a REALLY hot day; even then, you won't see any children in there. The fountain is that uninviting. It gives off a weird vibe, as though it was built from pieces of an atomic bunker, or carried from the bottom of a gloomy lead mine. The benches that surround it are nearly always empty. Or if not empty, they're occupied by sad, silent people.

The smaller fountain, the newer fountain, on the other hand, is always crowded, surrounded by people. It's affectionately nicknamed the Shower, and you'll quickly understand why. There's a thick circular band set ten feet up, atop four pillars; all formed of brass and thick white glass, lit from within. The band is equipped with nozzles that send thin jets up and in toward the middle, forming a dome of water that falls into the vertical center of the four pillars. The ground is paved with gray, brick-sized stones, set atop a grill to receive and drain off the falling water.

There's no puddle. There's no spray. It's all life and fun and positive ions.

I've seen many small children play in the Shower, but I've never seen anyone, child or adult, walk into it by accident, even though it's placed in a spot where four paths intersect.

The paths are lined with benches, and the benches are most crowded near the fountain.

One of the paths, the one that connects the parking-garage elevator to the fountain, is the longest and the widest. It's a smooth arc. When we emerged from the underground, we immediately spotted Rowan and Javier in the distance, before they saw us. The pair were easy to pick out, pressed and dressed as they were: neat as a pin, clean as a whistle, wearing their blue patrol uniforms. I'd never met (or even heard of) Javier before, but I was struck by how closely he resembled Rowan. Their builds were nearly identical: the same spare, muscular frames, the narrow hips and shoulders, the feral-looking head. Of course, their faces were their own, and Javier had a fuller, thicker head of hair. Javier also sported a moustache — which has long gone out of style. He'd be better off without it.

While we still a hundred feet away, both men spotted us. As Rowan raised his hand to wave a greeting, his face registered sudden surprise. He jumped half a step forward, and turned to look behind him. Javier also turned to look down, and right away began to laugh. He crouched to a squat, balancing on his toes.

Rowan turned his back to us, and the moment he did, we saw a large dark spot on the back and inside of his left thigh. It looked as though he'd wet his pants. He bent down, just as Javier had done.

A young woman, a teenager, her face all apologies and concern, came running up to the two policemen, and in an instant it all became clear.

A little barefoot girl stood between them. She obviously had spent a good long time in the fountain's spray, because the child was completely soaked: her face, her hair, her clothes. She looked to be about four years old: dark hair plastered against her little head, framing a cute, chubby, grinning face. In her hand was a small blue plastic cup.

"Oh, look at him!" Femke exclaimed, in a voice so heavy-laden with affection, it caught me off guard. It took me a few seconds to realize she meant Rowan, and not the little girl. I turned to look: Femke's face was full of tenderness and love. It glowed.

I blinked. By now, I'd come to see Femke as a woman with a hard shell; I expected her emotions to be hard as well — stern, nearly masculine. Yet here she was now, all softness and delight.

I'd never seen Rowan in uniform before, and I couldn't help but wonder whether he was dressed this way when Femke first fell for him. The uniform suited him; he suited the uniform. He and Javier might have stepped off the set of a buddy-cop TV series, they were perfectly dressed for the part.

Except of course for the big wet patch on Rowan's inner thigh.

Obviously, the little girl had filled her cup from the falling water and tossed it on Rowan's backside. She giggled, not at all shy. No trace of remorse. Her babysitter, a skinny, exasperated teenager, was clearly frightened by the two policemen. One apology after another came tumbling out of her.

Javier, smiling, did his best to console her, while Rowan, with mock severity, wagged his finger at the laughing child. At last, they broke away and turned to greet us.

"I tried to tell the girl to splash a cup of water on Javier's pants as well," Rowan joked. "But she wouldn't."

"That would be a great look for the courtroom," Javier returned.

"Oh, have you testified yet?" I asked. "I'm Merope, by the way."

"Yeah, I figured," Javier replied, with a ready smile. "I'm Javier. Rowan's partner."

"Yeah, I figured," I laughed, echoing his phrase.

At the same time, Femke, all tentative and doe-like, stood near to Rowan, face to face, her fingers, half-uncertain, seeking to rest on his shoulders.

Confused by her soft, intimate emotions, Rowan gave her an encouraging, but puzzled, smile and opened his arms to her, like a big question. She rushed into him, burying her head in his shoulder, seeming to want to burrow inside of him. Rowan held her close with one arm. His eyes bounced between Javier and me.

While he murmured near-silent things in Femke's ear, Rowan fished in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Without letting go of Femke, he handed the keys to Javier and, eyes on Javier, nodded toward me. Javier nodded back and mimed a series of gestures that began by pointing behind himself with his thumb, and ended by holding and eating an invisible sandwich. There were some other gestures in-between: pointing at me, unlocking a door, driving a car. Rowan nodded as if the gestures covered everything, and was about to shuffle with Femke to an area with less traffic, when Javier stopped him by holding up his hand and tapping the face of his watch. Rowan nodded again.

"Let's go," Javier said to me in a quiet voice.

"What was all that?" I asked him, once we were out of earshot.

Javier gave me a surprised look, as though the meaning of the entire mime was obvious and plain. "He gave me these keys for you. Here—" He put a pair of keys in my hand "—one of them is for Femke's place, and the other is for your car. Did you know you have a car?"

"Yes, Femke parked next to it, in the garage downstairs. It's filthy."

Javier laughed. "Yes, he's been driving that thing the past few days. I tried to get him to take it through a car wash, but he always claimed to be too busy. I was embarrassed to be seen in it — no offense!"

"None taken."

"Oh, and another of Rowan's endearing habits: you're — you'll need to put some gas in it, first thing."

I laughed.

"Okay. The other key is for Femke's apartment. I guess you're staying there? Do you know where she lives?"

"Yes and yes. I'll be staying for a little while at least." I thought about the remaining gestures. "And you told Rowan you'd pick up a sandwich for him?"

"Right." He laughed. "And I reminded him that we have to be back in court in an hour."

"So you haven't testified yet?"

"No, neither of us. God, I hope his pants dry before we go back. Otherwise we'll have to swap."

I grinned.

"You laugh," he told me with mock severity, "but if one of us shows up on the witness stand, looking as though we peed our pants, it won't end well."

"I guess not," I agreed. To make conversation I asked, "What's this case about?"

"Oh," he groaned. "It's... it's boring, believe me. We have to testify to the circumstances of someone's arrest—" He rolled his eyes and waved his hands. "It's tedious, believe me." Then, at a sudden thought, he straightened up. "Hey, uh -- you've spent some time with Femke, right?"

"Some, yeah. Why?"

"What's up with her... I admit, I don't know her well, but I have never seen her... hang on Rowan like that. Public affection never seemed her style. Very stoic and stern, usually. Now she's all kittenish and soft..." He shrugged, and his expression said, What gives?

"Oh..." I hesitated. "I think she needs some... reassurance and, I guess, comfort. The trip to the processing center was not really a very good experience."

He showed concern. "Sometime happened to her up there?"

"Um, yes."

"To you as well?"

"No, I was just bored and confused."

"So... what's the story? What happened?"

"Yeah, uh," I temporized. "Hey, Javier, where are we going right now?"

"Oh, sorry! In the interest of time we have to grab some sandwiches. I hope that's okay with you. If we weren't needed in court we could have driven down to where the food trucks park and had ourselves a real lunch."

"No, that's fine," I told him, but I sighed, disappointed. I couldn't help it. I was really hoping to talk with Rowan.

Hearing my heavy exhalation, Javier gave me a look of concern. "I'm sorry — do you not want a sandwich? They have some nice salads there, too, I think."

"Oh, it's not that," I told him.

"You're sorry you got stuck with me?" he teased.

"No, it isn't that, either. I need to talk with Rowan. I have... questions." I heaved another sigh, but this one full of resignation. "I shouldn't complain: Femke's just been hanging around for days, on my account. She deserves some time with Rowan, especially after what happened."

"What *did* happen?" Javier queried. "I mean, I've heard Rowan on the phone with Femke when you two were up there. I'm getting the impression that something... untoward... went down at the processing center?"

"Oh!" I exclaimed, catching myself. "Yes, the processing center... Well, it's a weird place with... weird people. Some of them are not so nice... but it's not really my story to tell."

"Uh-huh," Javier said. "Well, you know, those places are getting phased out anyway, but if something bad *has* happened, you can file a complaint. I mean, I don't want to guess, but if a crime was committed, it ought to be reported."

"I don't know... I need to think about it... I need to talk with Femke."

"I'm serious," he insisted. "Crimes should be reported. And remember: You can always talk to Rowan... or to me. I'd be — we'd be — happy to help."

I nodded my thanks and followed him into the sandwich shop.

 

---

 

When we returned to the fountain, Femke and Rowan were nowhere to be seen, so the two of us sat on a bench and ate our sandwiches. Javier prompted me, "So... you said you have questions. Is there a chance that I might have the answers? I spend all day with Rowan, you know. We do talk about stuff."

"Okay, um..." I took a deep breath. "So... I don't know how much you know... how much Rowan told you about me..."

"That you've been switched?" he offered. "Yeah, he told me. I helped him find the old you... Anson Charpont."

"Right! So you know about that?"

Javier nodded, his mouth full of food.

"Then... can you tell me where the hell is he? and why did it take so long for him to show up? And uh — how did you get the key to my car? Is that some secret police thing?"

He laughed. "No, the car key wasn't a police thing at all. It was actually Femke. When Rowan told her where your car was ticketed, Femke immediately went to have a look. The key was in the ignition, and the rear passenger door was unlocked. She just got in and drove away."

"That's kind of weird and convenient," I said.

"Convenient?"

"Convenient for me," I explained. "Why would Merope — the real Merope — leave her car that way?"

He shook his head and blew out a quick breath. "Any number of reasons! It could have been a mistake on her part... simple inattention. Maybe she was in a hurry, or got distracted. Maybe she didn't realize she'd left the back door unlocked. Maybe she only thought she locked her keys inside. You know? And then, before she could do anything about it, she ran into the Switcher."

"Maybe," I conceded, doubtfully.

Another possibility occurred to him: "Or... this might be a little far-fetched, but she might have hoped it would get stolen."

"Why would she do that?"

"I don't know. Maybe she wanted to disappear. You know, Rowan has this theory about Merope — that she came to town to make a new start, to leave her old life behind. Maybe getting rid of her car was part of that."

"That's pretty extreme," I objected. "She could have sold it. She could have given it to someone. Even if she walked away from it, it's still in her name. Still a liability."

"I don't know," Javier admitted. "Maybe she's like Rowan, and she just got fed up with having to wash it."

We both laughed.

"Anyway, if a person wants to disappear, the best way to do it is to simply walk away. In a random moment, just go. Leave your wallet, leave your clothes, leave everything."

"What sense does that make?"

"If you take your basic documents, your money, your suitcase, then it's obvious that you're on the run. If you leave it all behind, it creates a question: Did someone else take you? Are you even alive?"

I thought about it for a moment, but it still didn't add up for me. "I can't imagine doing that. It leaves you with nothing. Not even your identity." I scratched my eyebrow and thought.

"Okay," I said. "Well, anyway — that's the car key. That's one question answered. My other big question is about my old body. I want to know why Anson Charpont took so long to show up."

Javier smiled. "That's the funny thing. He didn't! He showed up right away! Or at least, as soon as he could. He was registered as a Switcher victim on Saturday morning."

"So was I!" I exclaimed. "But no one at the processing center heard of him. No one!" I stopped for a moment — something floated up in my memory. "And you know what else? They called Cleo — I mean, the processing center did. Cleo is my — is Anson's wife. They called and left a message. Or at least they pretended to."

"No, they really did call her, and she called back! For a couple of hours, there were a lot of crossed wires." He balled up his sandwich wrapper and brushed some crumbs from his moustache. "They called her to ask whether Anson was in a Switcher incident. She called back and asked, Shouldn't you be telling me? You see, all she knew was that you hadn't come home that night. She phoned the hospital — Harmish Memorial — gave your description, and found Anson right away."

"Why was he in the hospital?"

"He got mugged."

"Mugged? By the Switcher?"

"No. Let me walk you through it. You got switched after lunch on Friday, and twisted your ankle just before it happened. At the same time, you got some other injuries, including an ugly scrape on your face. Am I right so far?"

"How is that relevant?" I asked, interrupting.

"Just let me tell it, okay? The Switcher, as Anson, limped off, but he didn't switch right away. He sort of disappears for a couple of hours, and during that time he picks up a briefcase — he didn't have a briefcase when you saw him, right?"

"Right."

"So he sits on a bench in Fulton Park. He takes off his shoe and he's massaging his foot. There's a yoga class in the park, and he sits there watching. The teacher is a young guy, early thirties, name of Mukti Endecott. First name used to be John, but 'Mukti' sounds more yoga-teacher, right? Anyway, class is over, and Mukti — nice guy that he is, walks over to the Switcher and offers to help him with his ankle. He touches Anson's ankle, and boom! now he's Anson, and stuck with the bad ankle himself. The Switcher, now that he's young, fit, and good-looking, grabs his briefcase, and runs off laughing."

I scratched my head. The idea that someone else was running around in my old body made me uncomfortable, and now, knowing that a young, fit person had taken my place as an overweight retiree, was an additional load of guilt. "Have you met this man?" I asked. "Have you spoken with him?"

"Oh, yeah. Nice guy! I met him in the hospital."

"Why was he in the hospital?"

"I told you — He got mugged! See, Mukti's a quiet, thoughtful guy, so he sat on the bench for a while, taking stock, trying to make sense out of what happened to him. He understood that he'd been switched. If he had his phone with him, he would have called the processing center, but he couldn't. He tried walking, to find some help or a phone, but the walking was somewhat painful. So he set to work on his ankle, massaging it, trying to un-twist it... and doing some... yoga things to it. I don't know.

"He'd walk a little bit, stop a little bit, work on his ankle a little bit... Lather, rinse, repeat... Soon it got late and soon it got dark. Some kids spotted him, sitting alone on a park bench, ugly scrape on his face, his clothes torn and bloody, he's holding one shoe in his hand, and they figured he was homeless or helpless or whatever, so they took his wallet, his watch, his keys. He tried to fight them off, but he didn't have a chance."

He paused for a moment, then: "A dogwalker found him next morning, Saturday morning, lying in the bushes. They really beat the living shit out of him. So, he gets taken to the emergency room. Cleo — after the call from the processing center, she calls the hospital. They tell her he's there, she rushes over, and she identifies him."

"Identifies him!" I repeated, astonished. "As what — I mean, as who?"

"Well, she figures for the sake of insurance—"

"Insurance!?" I repeated. "Wait — have you spoken to Cleo? You got this from Cleo?"

"Um, yeah. Me and Rowan. We actually gave them a ride home."

"Them?" I repeated loudly, unbelieving. Then I shouted, "A ride home?"

Javier, a little taken aback by my reaction, gave a few quick tugs to the end of his moustache, and glanced at his watch. "Um, yeah. Listen, though: look at the time. We have to find Rowan. The two of us have to get back to court. We can't be late. I'm sorry, but -- here, get up. Come on."

He stood up and reached down for my arm. I sat there, thunderstruck, speechless, gaping.

"Come on," Javier repeated, with some urgency. "I'm sorry, but I can't be late. Anyway, that's basically the whole story." When I didn't respond, he gently took my arm, lifting me to my feet and leading me beside him. I followed empty-headed, shocked, zombie-like.

"Listen, Merope: probably your best next step would be to call Cleo. Find out what's what, fill in the gaps in the story, okay? Anyway, to answer your question, Anson was reported as a Switcher victim some time before noon, Saturday morning. See, the whole switcher-victim-processing thing is being decentralized. You really didn't need to drive all that way up north, but Rowan didn't know. All this decentralizing stuff is very new. Now there's training... there are people at hospitals, fire stations... police stations will be next... you know, people who can register Switcher victims. Those big processing centers are going to get phased out. They're a big waste of money."

"But..." I tried to focus on the topic at hand, I needed answers, even though my mind was utterly blown by the idea of Cloe taking the new Anson home. "But how long does it take before the hospital registers... uh, the uh... until they do the synchronization, right? Does it take days?"

"No, it's actually instantaneous. Real time. Or near real-time, whatever that means. Funny thing, though: the regional center rejected Anson's registration. Some kind of mistake, obviously. Hours later, end of shift, the hospital official noticed the rejection and resubmitted it. Next morning when she came in she saw it got rejected again." Javier shrugged. "You know — new things, new systems, they have to work out the kinks."

"No," I countered savagely. "It wasn't a kink. It was that fucking Stan."

"Stan?" Javier asked, alarmed. "Who is Stan?"

At this point, we saw Rowan and Femke approaching, his arm wrapped tightly around her. Femke was still in her affectionate mood, or affectionate reaction. She clung to Rowan like ivy. Silently, I swore: Goddamn Stan!

I pulled close to Javier, so as not to be overheard. "Stan is an asshole at the processing center. He's the... what do you call it? He's the facilities manager, and he's a crook of the highest order."

Javier stared at me, blinking. Rowan, grinning, looked from Javier to me and back again. He must have thought we were getting along well.

"Javier, hey man! We have to get back to court tout de suite. But good news: I called the station, and one of the rookies is going to bring over a pair of pants in my size!"

"Ah, heh, good news," Javier managed to respond. He turned quickly to me, grabbed my arm, and in an urgent whisper said, "If something is wrong up there, we should file a complaint."

"Just wait," I told him. "For now, just wait."

 

Merope, Maybe : 11 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"Did I shave my legs for *this*?"
— Deanna Carter

---

 

Femke, sunny and happy, leaned into Rowan, his arms wrapped around her. "I'm going to stay here with the boys, Merope," she told me. "I've never seen the inside of a real-life courtroom. I want to see my Rowan testify."

"That's fine," I said. "I want to go get Merope's phone."

"Do you know where it is?" Rowan asked, somewhat mechanically. His attention was clearly distracted by (1) his wet pants, (2) the need to get to back to court on time, and (3) Femke's affectionate (and uncharacteristic?) snuggling.

He probably wasn't listening, but I found myself replying anyway. "No — I mean, I'm going to go to her carrier and get her phone replaced—" but there I bit my tongue. If I continued, I would have explained about searching the USB drive for a recent phone bill, but talking about the drive would mean talking about Stan, since he was the one who gave me the drive.

I didn't want to mention Stan. Especially now that Femke was smiling.

Luckily, no one noticed anything I said (or didn't say). No one was listening; a fact demonstrated by Femke's immediate non sequitur. She laughed and waggled her finger at me. "Your first duty as a citizen," she cautioned with mock severity, "is that you wash your car with all due haste!"

"Yes, I'll do that first of all," I agreed, laughing as well, "I know a good place near my— um, I know a good place. They do a nice job of detailing as well."

Femke frowned detailing? and turned to Rowan. He in turn looked at his watch and gave her a tug on the arm. "Come on, we've got to go. This minute. Come on!"

"Seriously," Javier added. "I'm going to start walking."

Femke skipped a step away from Rowan and put her face close to my ear. "I won't be home tonight," she said. "Just so you know." I nodded in acknowledgment. She smiled and skipped back to Rowan's side.

When she and Rowan turned to walk away, Javier asked me in a quiet voice full of urgency, "Are you going to be okay?"

"Oh, yeah," I assured him. "Everything's fine right now. Don't worry. I'm a big girl now."

He nodded grimly.

"Seriously: Don't worry," I repeated.

He nodded as if he didn't believe me, and trotted after Rowan to the courthouse.

 

---

 

I watched for a few moments as the three of them walked away: Rowan with his wet pants, Femke desperately clinging to him, Javier hustling behind, hurrying them along, glancing at his watch every few seconds. He turned to look over his shoulder at me once or twice.

The little barefoot girl was still in the fountain, filling her little blue cup with water, and emptying on the ground. Her teenage babysitter stood nearby, tired but vigilant. She didn't want to apologize for any more unwanted splashes.

I turned away and followed the path, the long arc that leads to the parking garage elevator.

As I walked, my mind automatically did what it always does, what I always do: It planned. It made lists, and sorted the lists by priority. If I had a phone, I would be thumbing away, writing it all there. But that would have to wait until I had a phone.

Before I pushed the elevator button, I spotted a pharmacy across the way. I could do with a pen and paper, I told myself, and crossed the street.

I came out, armed with a handful of ball-point pens and a pair of tear-off pads of graph paper. They wouldn't let me buy just one of either item; they aren't packaged that way. I ripped away the plastic packaging and dropped it in a bin. Then I sat down on an empty bench and uncapped one of the pens.

Pens! I already *had* a pen: Merope's expensive, beautiful pen. Oh well. Save it for later.

With my cheap ball-point pen, I began to write:

Wash and detail car
Find phone bill on USB
Get new phone from carrier

After a deep breath I wrote:

Cleo

Yes, Cleo. What did it mean? Should I phone? Should I drop in? Should I call and ask if I can drop in? Should I make an appointment at her office?

That last idea seemed a bit passive-aggressive. At worst, she could take it to mean, the only way I can talk to you is if I make an appointment. At best, it could seem like I was seeking neutral ground, or wanted a meeting on her terms.

Should I hire an attorney, and have him or her arrange a meeting? Was that too heavy handed?

I held my pad on my lap, and when I shifted in my seat, the back of my hand brushed against my leg. I felt the fine hairs poking up. "Ah," I said aloud, and lifting the page so I could write on page two (where no one would see), I wrote

Shave legs? — ask Femke for suggestions

Then I lifted the second page and on page three wrote

QUESTIONS:
Did Merope shave her legs for something? for someone? out of habit?

"I should have gotten a notebook," I groused.

I sat there for a while, then returned to the top page and added

Job

Yeah, a job. I'd have to do SOMETHING to earn money. Soon the USB ought to tell me what Merope can and did do — at least I'd see her tax returns. Those would give me a clue.

Looking at what I had so far, the first thing I wanted to do was to get the USB drive and dig into it, mainly to find out about Merope's phone. I don't think I was obsessed with her phone; it's just that it seemed a key to unlocking her life. With her phone, I ought to be able to get into all her accounts, as well as see who was on her contact list.

Yes, that and — picking up my pen again, I wrote

her email

Which I could also likely get into through her phone. So, if I wanted to deal with the first thing weighing on my mind, I needed to go to Femke's and dig into the USB.

And that's what I intended to do, as I descended in the elevator and walked across the underground parking level. Here, underground, surrounded by concrete, I couldn't help but be reminded of the processing center. A creepy thought. Luckily, happily, there were plenty of people down there with me: people going to their cars, people leaving their cars, people trying to remember where they parked their cars. The presence of all those normal-looking people (none of them dressed in Army fatigues!) helped reduce the creepy factor.

In my mind, as I said, I was on my way to Femke's, until I saw my car for the second time.

I knew it was dirty when I first saw it, but I didn't get the full extent of it. When we arrived here, Femke and I were standing behind the car, so all I saw was the trunk and the butt end. When I walked around to the side, to approach the driver's door, I was appalled.

Did Merope never clean her car? Did she ever clean her car? The thing was filthy. I don't know what she could have done to reduce it to this state. I once visited a friend who lived in a high desert in Northern California, and it was that dusty. The roads were unpaved for the most part: packed earth. In the summer, when everything dries, the roads accumulate a layer of red dirt two inches thick. If you didn't drive at a super-slow speed, like five miles an hour, you would kick up an immense cloud of dust and dirt that would follow you and cover you and everything you loved.

I mention it because it's the only place I've ever seen a vehicle as caked in dirt as Merope's car. I was afraid to touch it.

I can't understand why she left it that way. A quick drive through a car wash: that's all it would take, but she obviously hadn't done it. If she'd ever done it, she hadn't done it for a good long while.

Naturally, it raises the question of why Rowan didn't drive it through a car wash. Even if *he* wouldn't think of it, Femke had told him to do it. Javier suggested it to Rowan several times. Rowan was driving this dirtball all the time we were up north in the processing center. Wasn't he embarrassed to be behind the wheel of such a dust bucket?

In the back of my mind I had an idea that didn't make it to my to-do list, and that was to search Merope's car. My intention was to carry out a *thorough* search. I was thinking along the lines of the search the trooper carried out on Rowan's car. I wondered how hard it would be, to pop out the back seat. Probably not too hard; the trooper did it in a moment. He popped it back in, too, like it was nothing.

When I saw my car, though, I had second thoughts about even touching the thing.

So... I wouldn't be conducting a search. Not at the moment. I'm sure if I worked over this car the way a thorough search would require, I'd end up filthy myself.

To the car wash, then!

With a long, straight arm I unlocked the door — without touching the door, of course. I only touched my key. Next, with the tips of two fingers, I gingerly pulled up the latch and opened the door. Carefully avoiding the door frame, I climbed inside and pulled the door quickly shut. A little dust fell inside, but I managed to dodge it. I rubbed the dirt off my fingertips on the carpet, then rubbed a little more with my thumb. I couldn't get them completely clean.

The inside of the car was free of clutter, at least. No old coffee cups or sandwich wrappers. It didn't smell of anything in particular; just a bit musty.

Looking around the car from the driver's seat, I didn't see anything of Merope's. No belongings, no traces of where she'd been, what she'd done, who she was. Maybe there was something in the trunk? I pictured the dirt, the MAAK ME SHOON Femke had written, and decided to leave the trunk-opening until after the car was cleaned.

Then it occurred to me: if I had the car detailed, the cleaners would gather everything they found and put it in a bag for me. They would do a much more thorough job of digging through the car than I ever would. Probably even better than the state trooper ever could.

I started the car. It sounded okay. No obvious bad engine sounds. I realized I hadn't looked at the tires. That, too, could wait until after the car wash.

I added to my list:

Get car checked
Check tires

I lowered and raised the sun visors: nothing tucked up there. I opened the glove compartment, and found, to my relief and satisfaction, a copy of the registration (with Merope's Omaha address) and her insurance. Happily, the insurance was current. I'd have to check whether her premiums were paid up. I added that to my to-do list.

It stood to reason that Rowan had already searched the car. I could probably *assume* that he had... but then again, I would have assumed he'd have gotten it cleaned, and put some gas in it. The gas gauge wasn't quite on empty; the NEED GAS icon hadn't lit up yet, but I've never like driving around with less than half a tank of gas.

When I left parking garage, and got out of the city center, I found myself on autopilot, driving home. Home! It wasn't home any more. After stopping for gas, I corrected course and soon arrived at Super Dynamic Bubble Shine, a car wash near to... near to Cleo's house. They do a great job and don't charge an arm and a leg for it.

This place is popular for good reason! I told myself to console myself. There were already five cars ahead of me, waiting to be cleaned. I didn't expect the place to be busy now, on a Monday afternoon. And yet, here it was in full swing.

Honestly, I've seen it worse: with a line going down the block. As I said, they're popular for good reason.

In any case, the line usually keeps moving. Cars go in, cars come out. The only bottleneck is the driver who doesn't use their time in line to decide which services they want. There are huge menus in four spots: you can't miss them. And yet, there are drivers who don't look at them. They pull up to the entrance and look around as if they've never seen a car wash before.

When the line didn't advance for a couple of minutes, I assumed this was the case. I didn't mind; I wasn't in a hurry. There wasn't any point in fussing.

And I was ready: I wanted the Super Deluxe Bubble Shine. It had everything: pre-soak, triple foam, hot wax, ultra shine protectant, ceramic coating, undercarriage spray, wheel cleaner, tire shine, and wheel brightener. There's more as well, but you get the idea.

I wasn't sure whether all of those items were real, actual treatments they did to the car, or just fluffy names. But I didn't care. The car would look like new afterward.

Speaking of "like new," I intended to add the Total Like-New detailing, which has its own list packed with items: they vacuum everywhere, they shampoo the carpets, they use compressed air to blow out all the dust, dirt, and debris. They clean the windows. They wipe down every surface with some kind of shiny protectant. To put it briefly, if there's a surface they can reach, they clean it. Afterward, the interior looks, smells, and feels like new.

Cleo and I used to give our cars the whole interior make-over twice a year. It costs a couple hundred dollars, but it's worth it. And this one was on Merope's dime.

Merope's dime... right. As I considered the prices, I realized that I had to make a budget. I added that to my to-do list. Merope left me a nice wad of cash, but I could easy burn through it in no time if I wasn't careful. I didn't want to live on Femke's charity, either.

With that thought, I got the glimmering of an idea for a job I could do... not that I wanted to, but I could do it...

I had another idea as well. I fished around, feeling under the seats and in the seat-back pockets, and found what I was looking for: it was a scraper and brush — meant to be used in winter, to clear snow and ice off the windows. Carefully, I opened the driver door, once again dodging a small fall of dirt. Then stepped out, shut the door, and swept all the loose dust away from the window, from around the window, and around the door. I tapped the brush on the ground to knock the dust out of it and climbed back inside.

Now I'd be able to roll down my window without bathing in dirt.

The line of cars finally brought me to the cashier. I rolled down the window and told him what I wanted.

He looked me over slowly, then ran his eyes over my car. He charged my card. I signed the receipt. He held on to it for a few moments.

"Wow," he said. "Just wow."

"Thanks," I answered, in a tone of irony.

"We ought to take a picture! Before and after, you know?"

"That's *two* pictures," I pointed out. He ignored my correction.

"This is the dirtiest car I've seen up in here! What — do you use this thing for off-road aventures? Is that what you do? Lady! Where did you go? What did you do?"

"Let's just say I've been on a long, long trip. Is that okay with you?" I replied.

"Heh," he chuckled. "Nebraska? That's not a long trip. It's not a dusty trip, either." He handed me my card and receipt.

"I took the long way around," I told him, and rolled up my window.

The conveyor took hold of my car and tugged it into the process. Jets of water shot all over my car, from every angle. The dust and dirt melted into a layer of mud, coating my car, obscuring my windows.

The lights inside the car wash changed to red and a carpet of blue foam flopped over my car, mixing with the mud. Heavy sets of cloth mats descended on mechanical arms and scrubbed my car. Jets of water washed it clean.

The lights changed to white and a thick coating of white foam covered me. I felt water pounding from beneath the car, and I pictured clods and clots of dried mud falling away.

The process went on, lights turning color at every step of the way. Different products were shot all over, rubbed with huge bristle brushes or massaged with heavy mats.

While the conveyor carried me through the cleaning process, all I could do was sit there, passive. My mind drifted inevitably to Cleo. Cleo and the new Anson. It bothered me. It bothered me a lot. How could it not? We'd been together twenty-five years, and lately it seemed we were drifting inexorably toward divorce, like a canoe heading for a waterfall. You watch the canoe — you know that even if it turns around, it'll still go over the cascade and crash on the rocks below. Cleo, for all her psychoanalytic powers, didn't seem to have any interest in fixing or healing whatever was wrong between us.

I don't want to rehash the way things had become. I don't want to get into how things got that way. All I'm saying is that Cleo seemed perfectly willing to toss our history over the side for the sake of man she barely knew. Or didn't know at all.

A three-part neon sign lit up, one phrase after another, to tell me that the various wheel and tire treatments were underway.

When Javier told me about Anson, he mentioned that Cleo had some consideration about insurance, but to me that seems an awfully thin reason for hitching her wagon to the man.

"What has he got that I haven't got?" I found myself saying. I knew it sounded stupid the moment I said it. What I meant was: What does he have that I didn't have? Here she was, going out of her way for this guy, when simply being civil to me seemed a massive effort.

I felt like an actor, forced to watch an understudy play his role. The new Anson was getting good reviews — at least if I could go by Javier's telling.

The conveyor pulled my car forward, toward the light of day. Big metal vents descended from the ceiling, drying my car with blasts of dry, hot air. I watched the water droplets fly against gravity, up my windshield and away. Already things were looking better: the hood was a shiny yellow, with nary a fleck of dust, dirt, or grime.

When I emerged, one of the workers signaled me to pull out of line, over to the left.

"You paid for detailing, right?"

"Yes. The Total Like-New package."

"Right," he acknowledged. "The kid didn't tell you, did he."

"Tell me what?"

"We're really backed up today. For detailing. He should have told you before you paid."

"Ah."

"I can do one of three things for you. We can make an appointment: you come back tomorrow. You give us an hour. That's the first option. Second option is you leave the car now, and you come pick it up at five. Or, you can wait in the waiting room. We got a TV in there. Or, there's Dunkin' Donuts." He pointed across the street.

"And the third option?"

"I give you your money back."

I considered a moment, then told him, "I'm going for option two."

"You're going to leave it now?"

"Yes."

"Okay, give me your phone number."

"Sorry — I lost my phone."

"Okay, be here at five. Okay? Five."

"Five it is."

I walked out, into the sunlight. I crossed the asphalt, where the cars emerge from the wash. Four teenage girls, dressed in t-shirts and tight shorts, were busy, towel-drying the cars. Strictly speaking, it isn't necessary, but it's expected. The girls watched me as I walked by, no particular expression on their faces. I got the feeling they were evaluating me, maybe as a possible future, weighing how they might feel if they turned out like that. Like me. I wondered how I measured up.

Maybe it was just my imagination.

I turned left out of the car wash. Four hours to kill, and my old house just over the hill.

 

---

 

In about fifteen minutes, I was "home." It wasn't exactly right around the corner, but it was in the neighborhood.

My heart pounded in my chest as I approached the front door. I didn't expect to feel so nervous. I had no idea what to expect; what sort of reception I'd get. I can always leave, I told myself. That will always be an option.

For some reason I knocked on the door before I rang the bell. Nerves, again?

Cleo opened the door, cocked her head and looked at me. "Yes?"

Embarrassed, full of uncertainty, I murmured, "Uh, sorry that I didn't call first, but I don't have a phone... yet... ah..."

Cleo tensed slightly. I saw she was ready to shut the door, so I quickly added, "Cleo, I'm Anson. Or I *was* Anson until the Switcher... met me."

"Ah," she said, nodding, and took a step back, allowing me in.

I walked straight through to the kitchen and sat down at the table, with my back to the door. Cleo sat at the head of the table, next to me. I took that as a good sign; if she'd sat directly opposite me, I would have taken it as confrontational. (A little tip that Cleo taught me.)

She looked me up and down again, and said, "Rowan said you'd gotten an upgrade, and it looks like he was right. Congratulations! I hope you're happy with the change."

"It could have easily been a whole lot worse," I conceded.

"When you consider that you've cut your age in half, your weight in half... You look healthy... you're good-looking... I guess..." She shrugged, as though the conclusion was inescapable. "What are you now, ten years younger than me?"

"Yeah, that too," I replied.

She offered a hopeful smile.

"So, yeah," I conceded. "I was pretty lucky. So... but... ah—"

"Rowan told you that he brought the new Anson here." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"Yes," I said, leaning forward a little. "What's up with that? I mean, you hardly know the guy!"

She didn't react, at least visibly. She ran her index finger back and forth in a small arc on the table. "You and I — how well did we know each other the first time we slept together?" She raised her eyebrows in query. "Not very well at all, wouldn't you say? Still, we had a good run. Didn't we?"

My jaw fell slight open. I gaped at her in disbelief. "What — are you saying you fell in love with this guy? Don't you realize what a liability he is, for you?"

"A liability?" she repeated. "Is that what concerns you? That he's a liability? Weren't you and I liabilities for each other?"

"The moment you told the processing people that you accept him as Anson Charpont, he became for all intents and purposes, legal and otherwise, Anson Charpont. In every way!"

She didn't respond. She only looked at me, watching my face with her psychological eyes.

"He is married to you now. Married! He could take half of everything you own, by law. Do you realize that?"

She hesitated a moment, then tossed her psychological stone into the pond and let it ripple. "Why, exactly, would that bother you?"

I stared at her, thunderstruck. "What kind of a question is that? It's natural for it to bother me!"

"It bothers you," she told me in an even, measured tone, "because you feel that he's taking it from *you*, not because he'd be taking from me."

Her statement deflated me. "Oh, Cleo," I groaned. "Sometimes when I talk to you, I feel like you are determined to not understand me." I took a quick breath that felt like a prelude to a sob. "Sometimes it seems that you make an active effort to turn whatever I say into something wrong." I tapped the table with my fingertips, and let my gaze travel around the room. "I shouldn't have come," I concluded. "There's no point to this."

I half-rose from my chair, when Cleo set her hand on mine and stopped me. "Wait," she said. "Please. We got off on the wrong foot here. I actually wanted to call you, but Rowan said you don't have a phone."

"Not yet. I will soon." I felt my anger, my offended feelings soften a bit at her conciliatory tone.

"I need your help with something. If you don't mind? Could you? I'm sorry, but it's something I know you can do quickly. If I do it, I'm sure I'll miss something, or mess something up."

"What is it?" I asked, sitting back down. Somehow, I was acutely conscious of the touch of her hand on mine. It was light, as if her hand weighed no more than a feather, as though its lightness expressed an emotion Cleo hadn't offered me in years. Was it kindness? Pleading? Simple need? When was the last time she ever asked me for help?

"I'm sorry," she said — rare words, from her. "I know this is hard for you, harder, probably, than I can understand. I don't want to step on your toes, or make things complicated for you."

I sniffed and coughed and nodded. "What kind of help do you need?" I asked, choking a little on the words.

"It's for Mukti — you know, the new Anson —"

"Let's just call him Anson," I cut in. "It'll be simpler."

"Okay," she agreed, studying my face, reading me. "Okay. You know that Anson got mugged, and they took his wallet, so we have to cancel all his cards and get new IDs, and all that sort of thing. You were always better at that stuff than me. Also, they're your accounts, you know, so... you have access and all..."

"Fine," I said. "It'll be easy. Um, could I go get my laptop?"

"Sure, sure," she replied, brightening. "You should take it, anyway, it's yours."

I left her sitting at the table and walked down the hall to my office. Was it weak of me? Was it stupid of me, to turn around the moment she asked for help?

I didn't know. I don't know whether it matters. At least she was talking to me.

I walked quietly, listening for signs of life from above. Was Anson in my old bedroom? Would he and Cleo resume the sex life we lost? Had they done it already?

When I entered my office, I felt both familiarity and unfamiliarity at the same time. Both feelings were strange, as if the feelings belonged to someone else, and I experienced them through an emotional telemetry. The room was mine; used to be mine, and I'd last been in that room only four days ago, but even so..., it wasn't mine any more.

I got on my hands and knees to unplug the computer from its power strip, and unthreaded the cord from behind the desk.

Cleo appeared at the door. "You know, after we do this thing with the cards, we should get a box so you can load up anything you want to take."

I looked around the room. "Yeah, maybe the mouse... the screen..." I touched a photo that hung on the wall. It showed Cleo, Herman, and me — back when I was Anson. All three of us smiling, sunny, glad to be there, with the Painted Desert at our backs.

"Heh," I chuckled. "Do you remember who took this picture? It was Rowan, of all people. That joker! The way he wheedled himself into that trip!"

"Yeah," Cleo laughed. "He turned out to be a good kid, in spite of all our worrying."

"Yes, he did," I agreed. I mused for a moment, then added, "I guess I'll be even more distant from Herman after this..."

"Don't say that," Cleo cautioned. "You never know. Stay open. Don't give up on our only child. He'll come around. And if he doesn't, you have to keep waiting. You're his dad."

I blew out a resigned breath, picked up my laptop, a pad and a pen, and returned to the kitchen. I'd left my own to-do pad in my car, and once again I'd forgotten about the pen collection in my bag.

It took less than thirty minutes for me to run through everything. I requested a new drivers license and health insurance card for Anson. I reported my old bank card and credit cards stolen, and contested a few bogus charges the thieves had added. Nothing big.

"Here's my email password," I told her, writing it on the pad, along with my other account usernames and passwords. "He'll be able to track the new cards there."

I looked through my password manager, to see if anything else came to mind. "Um, I have some routine medical appointments in my calendar. You or he should check. In any case, the doctor's office always calls to confirm a few days before."

"Thanks," she told me, putting her hand on mine again. When she did, something clicked in me. I realized that the entire time we were sitting there, while I worked on Anson's accounts, she must have touched my hand a dozen times or more. Every time she spoke to me, she touched my hand.

I'm not complaining! In fact, I liked it. I was like water in the desert, after several years of drought.

"Oh — another thing: you ought to change the locks," I told her. "You ought to do that today, since the muggers have all the keys. And keep my car in the garage for a while." I mused a moment. "You might check how much it would cost to change the car key as well." I thought for another few moments, taking inventory of the keys in my memory. "Really, the only keys that matter are the house keys and the car key. My car key, not yours."

She nodded, and scribbled a note on my pad: Cost of changing Anson's car key?

I sighed, looked up as I considered... then said, "I don't think there's anything else. If something occurs to me, I'll call you."

"Thanks," she said, with sincerity, and she kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then she stood up, so I found myself standing up as well.

She brought a cardboard box up from the basement, and together we returned to my office. I looked through all the drawers and shelves, but in the end I only took a few things: the family photo from the Painted Desert, a mouse, the screen, an external drive, the power strip... I only took two of my books for reference. That was it. I set the box down near the front door. Cleo looked out to the street.

"Where's your car?" she asked. "Are you getting it cleaned?"

"Yes — how did you guess?"

She rolled her eyes and laughed at the same time. "Rowan gave us a ride from the hospital in it. I gave him directions for the Super Dynamic, but I could tell he wasn't listening. His partner — Javier? told us Rowan wouldn't do it! He just won't go."

"Isn't it strange?" I agreed. "I don't understand how he could drive around in that dust bucket." I laughed. She laughed. We laughed together. It felt good; it was the first time I'd laughed with Cleo in a long, long time.

The sun came in through the front windows and lit her face. When I looked at her, it was almost as though I was seeing her for the first time. I saw the old Cleo in her face, the young woman I fell in love with. It gave me sense of nostalgia, of loss, of a glimpse into the way things used to be. She seemed... not exactly happy, but content.

It struck me, as we stood there, that our eyes were on the same level, and almost as an automatic thing I looked down at her feet. She was wearing sandals, just as I was. Our heels were about the same height. Cleo noticed were my eyes were going, and commented, "We're about the same height now. Funny, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," I muttered, and found myself looking back at the stairs that lead to the second floor. Was it my imagination, or could I sense his presence? "Is he here?" I asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes, he's resting. He's got bruises all over, did you know? And a cracked rib, but that's the only broken bone. They kept him overnight in case he had a concussion. He was beaten pretty badly, but he was lucky: they didn't damage any internal organs. To my mind, the worst thing is what they did to his face! He has this horrible scrape—" she drew her fingers from her right cheekbone down "—it must have hurt. It still hurts, I guess. They must have pressed his face into the sidewalk!" She shuddered. "And his ankle is twisted." She recounted, sounding a little perplexed by that detail. "That must have happened in the fight, somehow. You know, he fought back. Of course, he shouldn't have, but he did." She gave a thoughtful shrug.

"The um, cheekbone scrape and the twisted ankle, that was me," I informed her. "It happened in the moments before I was switched."

"Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "Okay."

"Yeah," I said, "not that it matters... at this point, anyway." I felt a little uncomfortable, awkward. It must have been the business about the keys. So I told her, "Listen, Cleo, if you don't mind, if I'm not overstepping, I could replace the locks myself. I mean, whoever took his wallet knows where he lives, and they have the keys. It'll take maybe an hour. Is that okay with you?"

"No, yes, sure. That'll be fine," she agreed.

"I just need to get to the hardware store... My car will be ready at five, so..."

"I can give you a ride," she quickly offered. "and you can tell me about your adventure."

 

---

 

Cleo loves to drive. Even if I was driving, she'd direct me. (Pass this truck — I can't see anything! or Change lanes, we're not moving! or Why did you go this way? We always go the other way!) I didn't particularly care who drove, so as a rule, I always left it to her.

As we backed out of the driveway, she was already in the good mood that driving gave her, and she opened the conversation by talking about Mukti.

She began with the call from Matt at the processing center, and how on earth did he expect Cleo to know whether Anson had experienced a Switcher incident!? At first she felt angry, offended, upset, and confused, until she hit on the idea of calling hospitals.

"I don't know why hospitals — of course, I mean, being switched isn't really a *medical* event, is it." She took a turn a bit too fast, as she usually did. "But there he was! My first call, to Harmish Memorial. They didn't know the name Anson Charpont, so I described you, and right away they told me you were there! Well! They were calling him 'Mukti,' but he matched your description perfectly. I took a cab. I was too..." she fluttered her hands in front of her chest "...too emotional to drive. I mean, of course, I had no idea who I was going to meet!"

I don't know... I was glad to hear her talking so freely (for a change). I listened, but I didn't fully understand. There was an obvious question that I wanted to ask, but didn't want to ruffle her feathers. I mean, her "emotion" — what was it? It didn't want to make it all about me, but it didn't sound like she was particularly concerned about the man she'd been married to for two and a half decades. I managed to find a neutral way to put it: "You were curious to see who's living in my body now."

"Yes!" she exclaimed.

"So he got to the hospital first thing in the morning—" I offered, but she cut in: "—not first thing. He got there at nine or so."

"And didn't he check in with the Switcher processing people right away?"

"Oh, them!" she scoffed. "He tried."

"And?"

"Well, the hospital has ONE PERSON — can you believe it? One person, for that job, and it was her day off! They had to call her in. She had to come in. I got there around ten, and sat with him for an hour before the woman showed up. And even then, she wasn't ready."

"In the meantime, the two of you talked, I imagine," I prompted. "You and Mukti."

"Yes, he told me what had happened — and I was so impressed with his spirit, with how well he was taking it."

She turned to me, her eyes shining. We had arrived at the hardware store. "Oh!" she exclaimed, catching herself. "You, too! Of course! You seem to be dealing with it very well, yourself! Have you spoken to a therapist yet?"

"Um..." I hedged. We were approaching the hardware store entrance, and there were people milling about. In a low voice I told her, "There are no therapists."

"What are you talking about?" she countered sharply. "That's not possible! Of course there are therapists. Are you telling me you refused to see one?"

"Um, door locks?" I asked one of the employees.

"Aisle nine," he answered, pointing.

"I didn't refuse anything," I told her in a low voice. "The processing center doesn't provide any mental-health services whatsoever."

She clicked her tongue in disbelief. "That's ridiculous!"

"Did they offer a therapist to Mukti?" I challenged.

"Well, no, but—"

"And they didn't know that you're a therapist, right? So it's not as though they figured he didn't need one."

She stopped and looked up, adding it up in her head.

"Listen," I said. "I was in a huge regional processing center. They told me that there are no mental health professionals there. Not only that, but they don't provide any services to Switcher victims once they're processed. All they do is gather their data. As soon as their data is entered in the system, that's the end of it, as far as the government is concerned."

"I find that hard to believe," she persisted.

"They also told me that they've never done any kind of follow-up, to see how people are doing."

"Short-term or long-term?"

"Neither. None. Nothing. Never."

I picked out three of the best door-lock sets.

"Why three?" Cleo asked. "We only have two doors: the front door and the kitchen door."

"The basement door," I reminded her. "Don't worry, I can make all three work off the same key, so you'll only need one."

Cleo's mind was churning through what I'd told her. "At the very least, they've given you the contact information for a support group."

"Nope," I replied grimly.

She searched her mind for other questions, but came up empty.

As I paid for the locks, I told her, "Femke was scandalized to hear it as well."

"Femke? Rowan's girlfriend? Well, of course, she's a psychology student."

"Is she?"

"Yes — she's getting her master's at Amberlis College. They have some innovative programs over there." She scratched her neck, thinking. "Of course, I've given some lectures there, myself."

"Femke thinks I should start a support group," I informed her, half-joking.

"Oh, interesting," Cleo said in a non-committal tone. "I'm sure you can find lots of resource material."

She fiddled with her phone before getting back into her car. Then she turned it to show me a photo. "This was Mukti before." He was a good-looking young man. Kind face. Relaxed demeanor. "He looks like a yoga teacher," I said.

"He was!" she replied, as if I'd hit on it by accident. "Or... is. He's determined to yoga himself into shape, now that he's... you."

Once we were underway, I prompted Cleo, "So, when the processing woman finally arrived, what happened?"

"Oh," Cleo scoffed. "She wasn't the brightest peg, if you know what I mean. She had a list of silly questions. *I* could have answered for him, I'd been there long enough to hear it already. It was mind-numbing, honestly, the time she took to get from A to B."

"And then she asked you if you'd accept him as Anson..." I put it out there.

"Well! I told you she was slow on the uptake. First she explained the process to Mukti: that they would have to contact me, etc., etc. — as if I wasn't sitting right there! And then she turns to me, and starts explaining it all over again." Cleo shook her head. "I cut her short and told her that as far as I was concerned, he could be Anson to me."

I sat there blinking. I must have blinked eight or ten times.

We drove in silence back to the house. I couldn't talk. Cleo seemed to have finished her story. I got out and set to work on the locks. I did the basement door first, since the tools are down there. It took me a while, but after fussing my way through that one, the back and front doors went quickly.

I found Cleo sitting in the living room, reading an academic paper. "I finished changing the locks," I told her. "The old ones are on the workbench in the basement. The new ones come with two keys, and here are both of them."

I put it that way to make it clear that I hadn't kept a copy for myself.

"And these work on all three doors?"

"Yes."

"Thanks," she said. She took off her glasses and toyed with them, but she didn't say anything more.

"Okay," I said. "I'll be off."

"Okay," she echoed. "It was nice to meet you. Thanks for stopping by. Say hello to Rowan... and to Femke."

"Yeah," I said. "Sure. Take care."

She put her glasses back on and returned to her reading. I picked up the box of my things, which made my exit a little awkward, but that's how it went. I opened the door, set my box outside, closed the door behind me, picked my box up again and started walking. I still had more than hour before my car was supposed to be ready, but I didn't care. I wasn't going to hang around.

I don't know... breakups are always hard, I guess. I've had a couple, but they were so long ago I can barely remember. Maybe breakups are hard on both sides, but everyone knows, it's harder to be the one who gets dumped.

As you can imagine, I was deep in my feelings as I walked. I fumed, I despaired, I hurt, I wanted to hurt back...

So I didn't hear someone calling my name at first. "Merope! Wait! Merope! Merope! Wait!" When I didn't respond, the voice switched to "Anson!"

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned. It was me... or Mukti... It was the new Anson, calling me, limping as he tried to run.

 

Merope, Maybe : 12 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"I don’t like the look of it at all,” said the King: “however, it may kiss my hand, if it likes."
— Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

---

 

I stopped, of course. How could I not? The poor guy was limping! Honestly, I wasn't ready to talk with him, or even see him, but here he was. There was no avoiding it.

I walked back, meeting him more than halfway, and set my box on the ground.

"Hey, there," he said, thrusting out his hand. "Mukti Endecott. What would you like me to call you?"

He was dressed in a long-sleeved, untucked white cotton shirt and long, loose cotton trousers. On his feet were white socks and an old pair of moccasins I'd forgotten about. He saw me taking in his wardrobe selection, and told me, "These were the softest clothes in your closet. I guess you heard, I've got bruises everywhere. It isn't pretty; I don't want to alarm people."

"Uh, yeah," I acknowledged, shaking his hand. "Merope Goddard." He smiled. An open, sunny smile. I found myself smiling back. Okay, I'll admit — the guy is likeable.

Next, my eye hit upon my wedding ring, there on his left hand. "Oh, yeah," he grinned, holding up the hand. "It's funny, but the ring feels like it belongs there, you know what I mean?"

"Actually, I do. I'm so used to the feeling I keep thinking I've lost it somewhere."

"Huh," he grunted. "Well, I'd give it to you now, but unfortunately I can't get it off."

"That's okay," I said. "It's yours now."

"So, uh, you're walking to the car wash, huh? Mind if I tag along? Give us a chance to talk? I couldn't get ready fast enough to catch you back at the house, so..."

"Well... uh..." I looked at his ankle. "If you can get there, I can give you a ride back home. In any case, it's about a mile to the car wash. Can you walk that far?"

"How much time do we have?"

"An hour, give or take."

He calculated for a moment, then said, "I can do that, if you don't mind walking slowly."

"But doesn't it hurt? Your ankle?"

"Honestly, no, it doesn't. Is this something that happened to you? Or did it happen to the Switcher, when he was you?"

"It was me, in the moments before I was switched."

"So that was... when?"

"Friday afternoon."

"Friday afternoon. Four days ago. It's healing up nicely. Anyway, I've soaked it in epsom salts, and did some very intense massage on it. I yoga'd the hell out of it, and now it's all taped up. I'm fine. I'm not ready to run a marathon yet, but a slow-walking mile is just fine."

"Okay, good."

"*This* hurts, though," he told me, pointing to his cheek. "Did that happen to you, too?"

"Yes, I fell, at the same time as the ankle twist. I hurt myself here, here, here, and here—" (pointing to his wrist, elbow, hip, and knee).

"Ah, okay. Good to know. I wondered where those came from."

"And the bruises — how bad are they?"

"Well, they aren't a whole lot of fun, but they'll go away. The epsom baths and the massages help."

I picked up my box and we began walking. Slowly. Slower than I wanted to go, but what choice did I have? While we walked I studied the new Anson. He was different from me. I mean, he wasn't the same Anson that I had been. His posture was better. So well that each time I looked at him, I stood up a little straighter.

He also seemed more relaxed than I remembered myself. Absent was that hangdog, mildly depressed look that I didn't really knew I even had, until I saw it missing from Mukti's expression.

He actively looked around him as we walked, taking in all the sights and sounds. He didn't just breathe, he drew the air into his lungs as if it were food, and gently let it out again.

"Is it strange to see me — to see yourself walking around like this?"

"Well—"

"I imagine it's something like an out-of-body experience for you. I remember how odd I felt, seeing myself run off, after the Switcher took my body from me."

"It isn't like that for me. I don't see you as me. It's hard to explain. I mean, you're so obviously someone else. I can't bring myself to call you 'Anson'—"

"Neither can Cloe," he interrupted. "Would it bother you if I changed my name?"

"Uh, no — why? Why do you think it would bother me?"

A small smile played across his lips. Both of us could see that somehow it would bother me. I asked him, "Are you going to call yourself Mukti Endecott? What about the guy who's running around in Mukti Endecott's body?"

"Right. No, I'm going to call myself Mukti Charpont. It makes sense: I'm Charpont on the outside, and Mukti on the inside."

"Makes sense."

"But you're sticking with Merope Goddard, am I right?"

"Yes, I'm feeling more and more used to that name, to that being me."

"Interesting. Do you think changing gender made it easier to feel that way?"

I stopped for a moment to think. I shifted the box in my arms. It wasn't heavy; but it was inconvenient. Mukti held out his hands, silently offering. Then he took the box from me. It didn't look awkward in his arms... I guess because his arms are longer.

"I don't think it's that," I told him. "I met a girl at the processing center. Her name was Laura, and she was switched into her boyfriend's body. She couldn't deal with it."

"That does sound mind-bending. Do you think the Switcher did that just to fuck with them?"

"Yes, it sounded that way, from her telling it." My impressions of her replayed in my memory. "I hope she ends up okay."

"Here's hoping," Mukti agreed. "But you... you like the name Merope?"

"I do now. At first I thought it was weird as hell, but now — who am I? I'm Merope. I can't *not* be Merope, even if I changed my name. That's how I feel." We walked a few yards in silence. I asked how his ankle was doing; he said it was fine.

"Anyway," he added, "you can't very well call yourself Anson."

We both laughed.

"Ansonia," he offered. "Ansonette."

"No, thanks!" I chuckled.

Javier was right: Mukti does seem like a nice guy. Maybe Cleo *did* get an upgrade, I grudgingly admitted to myself.

 

---

 

After we'd walked for a minute in silence, I glanced at him. "Are you okay?" I asked. "How's that ankle holding up?"

"The ankle's fine; you don't need to keep checking. I'm feeling good, but I'm getting the distinct impression that you weren't very active, were you."

"No," I confessed, "and since I've been switched, I've felt guilty or — well, I wanted to apologize to whoever ended up in my body."

"Apologize? Why? None of us asked for this, and it certainly isn't your fault."

"Well, no, sure, but... I guess if I knew that I had to hand my body over to somebody else, I would have stayed in better shape."

"Ah," Mukti nodded. "I wouldn't worry about it. In my case, I'm glad. It's a challenge! It's a chance for me to live up to my words. As a yoga teacher, I've always told people that it's never too late to start. Now I have to prove it, in my own person. I'm looking forward to it."

"You know," he added, "I was talking to Cleo about collaborating on a blog, to chronicle this journey. On my part, a lot of the attention would be on the physical. Cleo could add the psychological dimension."

He turned to look at me, his eyes shining. "Would you like to get in on it? You could write a guest piece, whenever the spirit moved you!"

"Whoa, I don't know..." I cautioned.

"No stress!" he declared. "No deadlines! No censorship! Just you, whatever you want to say!"

"I'm not sure I want to say anything," I told him.

"You don't have to give me an answer now," he added, excited by his idea, "In fact, you can say no today and yes a month from now. No strings!"

"Mukti, I *can* give you an answer now. Right now. I don't want to. I want to stay under the radar, as much as possible. Can I ask you to keep my name out of this blog? Will you do that?"

Disappointed, he conceded. "Yes, sure, of course. Absolutely. Your privacy is your privacy." He made the motion of zipping his lips.

 

---

 

By now, we were about halfway to the car wash. I insisted on taking my box back from Mukti, to take my turn carrying. It was fair, sure, but I was sorry to be lugging that thing again. It wasn't heavy. It was just awkward, mainly because of the monitor screen lying across the top. Mukti, watching me adjust the box, shifting as I tried to find a good way to carry it, said, "Listen, Merope: why won't we divide the labor here. I can take the screen and you can carry the box, or vice versa. What do you say?"

It was a good solution. Without the screen on top, I was able to shift the box on my shoulder, where it seemed to weigh nothing. Mukti tucked the screen under his arm, as if it were an oversized book.

At one point, Mukti observed, "I can feel you vibrating."

"What does that mean?"

"It's like, I don't know, like a perturbation in the Force. You know, Star Wars? What I mean is, on the surface, you seem fine with all this, but I can feel that under the surface, you've got a lot going on: emotions roiling, buried feelings. Maybe some resentments? Unfinished business?"

I heaved a heavy, heavy sigh. This guy was the first person who realized that I wasn't as calm as I seemed; that I hadn't adapted or adjusted or "dealt with it" or whatever.

"Right."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I looked at the ground as we walked. He had to ask me slow down a little. Then I got into it.

"There's Cleo. Our relationship was... not so great, the past couple of years. I often felt like we were about to go over a waterfall, but she didn't seem interested in preventing the inevitable crash. I felt... helpless. She was angry, all the time. Honestly, it didn't seem like there was anything I could do that didn't piss her off or offend her."

Mukti listened in silence.

"But then, you come along, and in a moment she throws away more than twenty years of married life! Just like that!" I snapped my fingers.

"Is that how it seemed to you?" he asked.

"Isn't that how it is?" I retorted.

"No, not at all. Not from my point of view," he said. "I think she helped me out when I was in a tough spot. As a stranger in your body, I didn't have any insurance. I didn't even have my credit card — Switcher ran off with it. I wouldn't have been able to use it anyway—"

"But she didn't just let you use my insurance!" I exclaimed. "She handed you my life!"

Mukti gave me a cautious look, uncertain about where my volatile emotions might lead. I think I scared him a little.

"Your life?"

"Don't you realize? The minute she told the processing people that she accepted you as Anson Charpont, you became Anson Charpont."

"Well, you might see it that way—" he hedged.

"No! It *IS* that way! My drivers license — yours! My house — yours! My bank account — yours! My wife — YOURS! Do you get it? Do you understand?"

For the first time, Mukti looked uncomfortable. "No, no, man. I can tell you that I don't see it that way. I'm sure Cleo doesn't see it that way, either."

"Fuck seeing!" I shouted. "I'm talking about facts! You're MARRIED now, do you get it?"

He moved his hands vaguely, but didn't speak.

"You're married," I repeated, in a more normal tone. "Cleo told me what happened at the hospital. She made it seem as though she did it just because the processing woman was kind of slow in the head, and it made her impatient."

In spite of himself, Mukti started laughing. "Yes, they did irritate each other. Cleo told her that she wasn't the brightest peg in the shed, or something like that."

"It isn't funny," I insisted, so he stopped laughing (out of consideration).

"Look," he said, "neither of us used the word forever, okay? We have no idea how this might work — as a partnership? as a friendship? as housemates? as a marriage? We didn't get as far as even uttering that word!"

I was about to object, but he gently held up his hand. "Look, we don't know whether this will work — at all! If we *can* make it work, we will."

"And if you can't? If it doesn't work?"

"Then I guess we'll get a divorce," he replied, and laughed again.

I stopped in my tracks. At first I was speechless, then I hissed, "And at that point, you'll walk away with half of everything!"

He cocked his head and looked at me, confused. "No I won't," he retorted.

"Yes, you will!" I countered. "That's how it works in this state!"

He tried to grapple with what I was telling him. He clearly had no idea. "If that's what's bothering you," he said, "I can split it with you. Or — or, give it to you, outright."

"No!" I exclaimed. "No, you can't!"

He frowned, puzzled. "How about this: we just divide everything in three right now? Or you take your half, right now?"

"We can't do that," I told him.

"Why not?"

I began to deflate, under the pressure of explaining. "Mukti, do you know what liquidity is?"

"No."

"Okay, well, right now, because you are legally Anson Charpont, you are entitled to 50% of the value of, well, just for example... 50% of the value of the house. The house you share with Cleo. Just suppose she wanted that 50% now, in cash. What would you do?"

"Sell the house?"

"Okay, sure, but then there are taxes to pay, and the house is gone. Neither of you will actually get 50% of the money, and besides that, where are you going to live?"

Mukti, with a look of great distress, set the screen carefully on the ground and rubbed his face with his hands. "Oh, man," he groaned. "You are making this SO complicated!" He pressed his fingertips over his eyes, and swallowed a few times.

"Can I say something?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I don't *care* about all that. I don't even understand what you just said." He took a deep breath. "I'm not in love with Cleo, and she is not in love with me. Okay?" He looked up, trying to gather his thoughts. Then, "Listen: a few moments ago, you wanted to apologize because I got stuck with your body, right? But now it seems like you're blaming me — or resenting the fact that I'm stuck with your life."

Hesitantly, he set his hand on my shoulder. When I didn't react or shrug it off, he let me feel the weight of his arm. It was somehow calming, I don't know how. In a soft, low voice, he said, "None of this is fair. None of this is right. I'm just beginning to see that the Switcher, even when he doesn't physically hurt people, he does a violence that sometimes has no remedy."

He let that sink in.

Then he added, "Whatever I can do to make this less unfair, I will do. Okay? Whatever that means, I promise."

"Okay," I agreed. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry! We've been fucked over! Both of us! But we didn't land as hard as other people have. Am I right?"

"Yes, you're right."

"We've been pretty darned lucky, both of us."

"Agreed," I acknowledged.

He picked up the screen once again and we set off walking. After a block or two, he asked me, "Listen, if it's okay to ask, do you know what you're going to do for work?"

"No, I don't mind your asking," I replied in a chastened tone. "Um, I used to be a programmer. Actually, I meant to ask Cleo, back at the house, if she wouldn't mind calling my former employer and telling them that I am Anson on the inside."

"To see if they'll hire you back as Merope?"

"Yes."

"That's a great idea!"

"Will you ask her for me?"

"I have a better idea — I think. What if I come with you and the two of us explain?"

"Actually, that would probably be the best thing," I told him. "That's a great idea!"

"So... do you want to do that tomorrow? Tomorrow morning?"

"Oh, uh, tomorrow? No, I, uh, I need to get Merope's phone replaced, and dig into her life a bit. There's a lot I don't know about her. I mean, speaking of jobs, I don't even know her social-security number yet. Could we do it on Wednesday?"

"Sure. It'll be nice to get out and about."

 

---

 

Mukti walked the entire distance, all the way to the car wash, without any difficulty. He didn't pause, he didn't stop or complain, and he didn't move all that slowly. It took us a little over a half hour.

"We're a little early," I pointed out. "And I don't see my car. I hope it's done."

"I don't mind waiting," he replied, agreeably.

I wondered how Femke would react to Mukti's agreeable-ness. I didn't get very far in my wondering, though — a familiar ring tone began to sound. Mukti didn't react at first, but with a startled "oh!" he pulled a telephone from his pocket: a cell phone that I knew quite well — my old phone.

He turned the face so I could see who was calling: Cleo. He hit the green button and greeted her. I mimed to him that I would go inside, but that he should stay and take his call.

He was still on the phone when I returned with my key. I picked up my stuff and lugged it around the side of the building, to where my car sat waiting. He followed behind.

What a transformation! The car gleaming and shining, almost like new. I opened the trunk (which was empty) and dumped my box and screen in there.

Mukti hung up and smiled at me.

"Get in," I told him. "I'll give you a ride back."

After we climbed in and fastened out seat belts, he took a deep sniff. "Smells like new in here! Everything sparkles!"

"Yeah," I agreed, and started the engine.

"Hey, that was Cleo on the phone, obviously. How'd you like to stay for dinner?"

I gave him a hesitant look. "I don't think Cleo wants to see me," I answered. "And honestly..." I didn't finish the thought.

"It was her idea!" he exclaimed with a big smile. "And I'm cooking! It'll be something simple: just a stir-fry. Come on! Why not?"

I had several years of why not that made me disinclined. Nothing I wanted to share with Mukti, so I said nothing.

He kept on going, though: he cajoled, he urged, he reasoned, he hoped...

In the end, when I pulled in front of the house, I turned off the engine and followed him inside.

 

---

 

Cleo met us near the door. She put a generous glass of white wine in my hand.

"I'm glad you came back," she told me. I nodded to her and eyed the size of the glass.

"Do you want one, Mukti?" she offered.

"Maybe later," he said. "I suppose it's too early for dinner, right? But I could do the chopping, the preparation, and put out some cheese and crackers?"

"Sounds nice," Cleo agreed.

Their manner toward each other was, I guess, about the level of housemates: polite, accommodating. Nothing in their tone suggested lovers — or even friends.

Cleo reached around the doorway and picked up her own glass from a side table in the living room. To me she said, "Why don't we go in here?" — gesturing toward the living room.

She scratched her head and sat down. "Listen," she began, "this is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. I don't know how I seem to you, but inside, I'm freaking out."

"You don't look it," I told her.

"Neither do you," she countered. "You seem to have taken this whole life-swap/gender-swap squarely in stride."

"Everybody keeps saying that," I said, "but I'm a wreck. All the uncertainty... I mean, this woman's life is a mystery. I know almost nothing about her!"

"Well, Mukti is an open book by comparison," she admitted, "but still..." She took a healthy sip of wine. "When you showed up here earlier, I was scared to death."

I frowned in disbelief.

"Aren't you going to drink your wine?" she asked. "It's one of your favorites — that Falanghina."

I sniffed it and took a sip. "It is good," I admitted. "But have to drive."

"You don't," she told me. "Do us both a favor and stay over tonight. It'll be easier to talk about... all this stuff... if you're not watching the clock and trying to not overdo."

I hesitated.

"We'll have Mukti here as referee," she pointed out, half-joking.

I gave in and took a good sip, savoring the familar flavor. Odd, though: it made me realize that my memories of taste and smell were transferred along with my consciousness. Interesting!

I took another sip and got right into it. "I have a question: are you in love with him?"

"No," she said. "That's an easy one."

She looked at me a few moments, considering. Then after opening and closing her mouth twice, she said, "I have a patient, a woman. She's having marital difficulties. One day, her husband goes to animal rescue, and comes home with a cat. Not a kitten, but a cat. A Maine Coon. It's beautiful; she showed me a picture."

"So what's the problem, then?"

"After a couple of weeks, seeing her husband interacting with the cat, she told me, I think my husband loves that cat more than he loves me." She paused, and with a slightly grim smile asked, "What would you have told her, if you were me?"

"That's easy," I replied. "I'd tell her that a relationship with a pet is simple: easy, uncomplicated. Especially compared to a relationship with a human being."

"Bingo," she said. "That's exactly what I told her."

"So what's the remedy? What's she supposed to do?"

Cleo shrugged. "You tell me."

"Okay. I'd tell her, Don't be jealous. Don't take it as a snub."

"That's what I told her," Cleo agreed, with a little laugh.

"Did it help?"

"Not at all."

We sat in silence for a few beats, listening to Mukti opening and closing the fridge, washing and chopping food.

Then she said, "I know that you and Mukti have been fucked over by this Switcher character, but keep in mind that I've been fucked over, as well."

"Point taken," I responded. By now we were both well into the wine. Mukti came in briefly to set out a tray filled with crackers, proscuitto, salami, and three different cheeses.

"What luxury!" I exclaimed, by way of compliment. He bowed and returned to the kitchen.

"I thought about what you told me," Cleo said, "about how there was no follow-up or counseling of people who were switched. I couldn't believe it. I assumed that you just didn't know. So, while you two were out, I searched for studies, for papers, for peer-reviewed articles in established journals... and I found nothing! Nothing at all!"

"Not even surveys?" I asked. "There must be some statistics, right? Like, for instance, how many Switcher victims went on to commit suicide?"

Cleo gave me a sharp look. "You're not considering suicide, are you?"

"Of course not!" I snapped back. "But it's a trauma... I'm not worried for myself, but..." I told her about Laura, and how deeply her situation affected me. Cleo listened in silence.

After that, the wine did its work, and the conversation became more... free-wheeling. We talked about anything and everything, past, present, and future. We consumed all the hors d'oeuvres, and carried the empty tray into the kitchen. Cleo pressed Mukti into taking a glass of wine himself, and he got to cooking — sizzling the chicken, vegetables, and leftover rice in a big wok he found in the back of one of our cabinets.

"It's basically chicken fried rice," he said apologetically, but it was perfect. It filled the bill, as the pelican says.

 

---

 

We did cover some serious topics, in spite of the wine.

Cleo asked me why I went all the way to the processing center. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Or a police or fire station?"

"I didn't know you could," I responded. "And Rowan had no idea."

"Too bad you couldn't ask Javier," she commented. "He's a lot more plugged in than Rowan."

At one point — I can't remember apropos of what — Cleo proposed a toast, quoting Tennyson:

'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

— which may sound heavy, but in the moment it passed like a paper boat launched among the breakers — there for a moment, then gone.

Cleo left the table so she could use the bathroom, and took a long time returning. We were just about to go looking for her, when she reappeared, cackling with glee, holding a tiny black backpack in one hand, and my bag in the other.

"Here you go!" she shouted, a bit too loud. I realized that I've very rarely seen Cleo drunk — or even buzzed. Not since we were much younger... I'm not sure when. But right now, she was definitely under the influence.

"Merope, Merope, Merope! Time for an upgrade! You need to toss that ugly old bag you inherited! Time for a new one!"

She pushed the plates aside and dropped the tiny backpack on the table.

"It's so little," I objected. She waved her hand dismissively, and turned my bag upside down, shaking it, spilling the contents onto the table. My keys, of course, fell out first, landing with a clanking bang! My fancy pen tumbled down with a clunk, while the lipstick and cheap ballpoints I'd collected rattled and clattered as they landed. My wallet and the envelope full of money dropped with a thud. Cleo glanced inside and shook harder. The little pack of tissues, the tampon, the santitary pad were the last to emerge.

Still Cleo insisted, after looking inside once again. She pressed the bag's bottom corners together and gave one final shake.

I was about to tell her to stop — not knowing she was at the end of her efforts — when, to my astonishment, a USB drive appeared and bounced twice across the table.

"What the hell is that?" Cleo demanded. "It looks like an electronic circuit."

"It's a USB drive," I told her.

"No, a USB drive is bigger," she countered.

"This is just the basic element," I informed her. "See, this is where it plugs into the computer. Most of what you see in a normal drive is packaging. This is the essential item. Where was it?"

"I don't know. It's so little, it was probably jammed under a hem or a fold of cloth or something. Admit it, you didn't really look."

"I did," I insisted. "So did Rowan."

"Are you sure it's a USB drive? It looks like electronic junk or a broken-off piece of something."

"Yes, I'm absolutely sure."

"Well, let's plug it in and see what's on it!"

"That's not a good idea," I cautioned. "We have no idea what's on it. It could have a virus or a trojan horse. We'd have to look at it on a air-gapped computer with—"

"Oh, screw that," she responded. "Mukti, go get my laptop—"

"I know where it is," he replied helpfully, and scurried off.

I knew I should discourage them from plugging in the unknown drive, but then I thought, Fuck it! If they don't care, why should I? It was irresponsible of me, I know, in my defense, I had been drinking.

We plugged it into her laptop. It contained three folders: DOCUMENTATION, CODE, SPECS. I looked into the code. It was some kind of embedded control system, but everything was so low-level, I couldn't get the big picture of what it was meant to do. Next I checked the specifications. They were diagrams for building a physical device.

"What is it?" Mukti asked. "I have no idea what we're looking at."

"Looks like industrial espionage," Cleo opined, slurring her words. I'm not sure whether she was joking, but I said, "That's what I'm thinking as well."

The outer shell of the device was a smooth metal cylinder: about three inches long and about an inch in diameter. In my mind's eye I replayed my encounter with the Switcher, seeing him once again (in my memory) lifting those cylinders from Merope's bag and dropping them into Anson's coat pockets.

"It's something like a battery," I read. "I'm not sure what this is. But I'm guessing this is what the Switcher came to town to steal."

"How boring," Cleo complained. "He came to town to steal something boring!" She kept playing with Merope's bag as she sat there. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sure it's dreadfully important." And she laughed. Her fingers played over the bag.

"Hey, what's this?" she asked herself, as she roughly pulled the bag inside out. She wagged her finger at me and said, "You didn't check for hidden pockets, did you."

"I did," I replied. Then, returning to the diagrams on the computer screen, I told them, "This is important. I think I need to call the FBI."

"Okay, fine," Cleo agreed. "But I'm sure they're sleeping now. You can call them in the morning. Look at this." With her fingers, she traced the outline of something flat, underneath the bag's lining. It looked to be about 3x5. "Look here," she repeated. "This side of the lining isn't sewn at the bottom. At least not all the way across." She worked the rectangle down toward the bottom of bag until a corner emerged. She grabbed it and yanked it all the way out. She gave it a quick once-over, front and back.

"Look, look!" she cried, almost cooing. "How cute! How absolutely darling! Look, Merope, this is you, when you were eight years old!"

It was a photograph of a young girl, kneeling on the ground, her left arm hugging a German Shepherd. On the back was written "Hal 2001" in blue ink. I scratched my nose. "Does she really look like me?"

"Oh, yeah," Mukti agreed. "That's you. Same face, same you. Yep."

Cleo exclaimed, "That's you! That's you, alright. And your doggie! What a cute little girl you were!"

I scoffed, but her teasing made me smile. "Hal... 2001... kind of weird joke to write there."

"Why is that a joke? The dog is Hal, and the picture was taken in 2001."

I shrugged and hemmed and hawed. I didn't really want to explain. If she didn't get it, the explanation wouldn't help.

"I better hit the hay," Mukti said. "I can clean up in the morning. Night, all."

"Night, Mukti. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Once he was gone, up the stairs, Cleo's hilarity came down a few notches until she was calm. "I better get to bed, too. I need to work in the morning." She looked me over and said, "I'll get you some pajamas. Are you okay with sleeping on the couch? I mean, there's room in my bed, but it would be way too weird for me. Way way too weird."

"Yeah, I'm fine on the couch."

"Thanks."

She gave me a bath towel, a change of underwear, and a matching pair of cotton shorts and t-shirt. Then after a quick look in her closet, she pulled out a black dress with white polka dots. "You can wear this tomorrow. You don't have to give it back."

Cleo grabbed some bedclothes and helped me carry everything into the living room. She threw a sheet over the couch and tucked it in. She wrestled a pillow into a pillowcase, then spread a soft blanket over everything. She took the clothes and towel out of my hands and dropped them onto an armchair.

"Okay, I think you're all set," she told me, and gave me a sloppy, wet, drunken kiss, right on the mouth. I'm 100% sure it was just the wine kissing me.

"You're a lot nicer to me, now that I'm a woman, than you ever were when I was a man."

"Umm," she agreed, nodding heavily. "We were stuck," she said, "like two gears that are supposed to work together, but instead they got locked in place. Rusted, maybe. Frozen. Neither one of us could move or change. Now, the whole schema is broken — exploderated. Our patterns... have been diss-patterned. Oh, God, I'm so drunk."

"It's fine," I told her. "Just drink a lot of water before you go to bed. It will help."

"Oh, I have to work tomorrow!" Cloe lamented, to the air.

She turned, walked out of the room, and up the stairs.

 

Merope, Maybe : 13 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"People love dogs.
You can never go wrong adding a dog to the story."
— Jim Butcher

---

 

Over the years I spent married to Cleo, I became familiar with her repertoire of morning sounds, especially her kitchen sounds. On the weekend, for example, the pace of her activity was slower, calmer, less focused. She might open the refrigerator or a cabinet three times, rather than once... but slowly, with a casual air.

Of course, if she was in a hurry, it all became staccato. Sharp, crisp. Quick impacts: bap! snap! clink!

Her easiest set-piece to identify came when she was angry: there was no mistaking the deliberate, outwardly-focused slams of the drawers and doors, the throwing down of plates and cutlery, building up to the climax of the front door closing with a boom! that echoed through the house... followed by the distant epilog of her driving off in a huff.

Of course, there were many peaceful mornings. There were sets of widely-spaced, almost-inaudible sounds that told me, I'm trying to not wake you. It was like a caress that could nearly reach me in my dreams.

My favorite of all was the one I heard this morning: A very particular set of quiet sounds that an untrained ear would not distinguish from the trying-to-not-wake-you set: the whole performance was restrained. The drawers gently rolled closed. The cabinets shut with the lightest touch. Plates and cutlery landed cushioned by placemats, never on the hard counter or table.

What was the difference? When Cleo tried to not wake me, the sounds came farther apart, as if from far away. This other set was more continuous: one whisper followed the next.

When she tried not to wake me, I'd find myself asking whether I heard sounds in the kitchen, as if I could have been mistaken.

In this alternative version, by its continuity, composed the light, muffled sounds into a call... to me. It was her way of saying that she was there; that she didn't want to *abruptly* wake me, and yet she wanted me to come share breakfast.

I padded on bare feet into a room full of sunlight and the smell of fresh coffee.

"Morning," she said. Her eyes looked me up and down. "Dear God!" she exclaimed, with a slight smile. "I had to be drunk to give you that top last night — I can see your nipples through the cloth!"

Startled, I looked down at my chest and told her, "I'll go change right now."

"No, no," she said. "It's fine. I have to leave in two minutes, and, uh, he won't be down for another half hour. Eat some breakfast. Take a shower first. I wanted to see you before I left for the office."

She took a bite of toast and pointed at the percolator. I nodded and poured myself a cup. I've never liked drinking coffee on an empty stomach — or at least, I never had as Anson. As Merope I didn't seem to mind. But — force of habit — I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and leaned my butt against the counter so I could face Cleo.

"I'm glad I came back last night," I offered.

"Yeah," she said, not looking at me. "Let's see where we go from here."

I sipped some coffee. She sipped some coffee. Cleo gazed at the table: not hostile, not awkward, not closing me out. At the same time, not open, not friendly, not laughing as she had last night. Now, sober, she was, what? Cautious, maybe — not throwing open the doors after whatever it was we passed through as a couple. You could say that in a moment we'd magically transmuted from a pair on the verge of a break up, to — to what? To a pair of women backing away from a cliff we'd nearly gone over?

Tentatively, I tossed out a thought: "Mukti seems like a nice guy. A good person."

"Yeah," she acknowledged. "Let's hope he can be a good housemate. He seems honest. Let's hope he's as guileless as she seems. It'll be good to not live alone in this great big house." It took her a couple of beats before the thought occurred to her: "Do *you* have a place to stay? I mean, if you're stuck with nowhere to go." She made a vague gesture at the house that surrounded her; a half-hearted offer of a place to land. At the same time she gave me a look that I understood to mean (1) that her offer was real; that I truly could stay if I needed refuge, and (2) that she sincerely hoped I wouldn't.

"I'm staying with Femke for a while," I assured her. "She has an extra room. But as soon as I have a job, I'll get a place of my own."

"Job?" she echoed. "It sounds like you have something definite in mind."

"Yeah," I confessed. "I'm going to try to go back to my old job, the job I just left."

"Really!" she exclaimed.

"Yes. Mukti's coming with me tomorrow, to help convince them that I'm Anson on the inside."

"You could get a t-shirt with that, blazoned on the front: ANSON ON THE INSIDE," she joked, gesturing at her chest as if the words were written there.

"I'm pretty sure they need me," I said. "Not that I really want to do that work anymore, with those people in that place, but least it will give me a toehold. You know, it's easier to get a job when you have a job. While I'm there, I can train in some newer programming language, and find something different."

"Finally leaving your Cobol behind," she mused.

"Yeah."

"Good plan," she acknowledged. "I guess Mukti's going to go back to teaching yoga, giving massages..." she chuckled. "At your age! At his age. You know what I mean."

"He told me he wants to do a blog," I said, "of his progress post-switch."

"Yeah," she acknowledged, glancing at her watch and suddenly hurrying. "He wants to pull me into it. I'm not so keen. Although I think he might find it easier doing a podcast about his transformations." She gathered her belongings. "I've gotta go. Listen, don't leave without seeing Mukti. He's got a surprise for you." She smiled as though the surprise was something on the level of a drawing a child might present to their parents.

She gave me a quick peck on the cheek by way of goodbye, and — her hand still lightly resting on my forearm — she froze for a moment, remembering.

"Oh, listen," she said, taking a half-step back. She raised her hand, palm out, and I found myself admiring her manicure. "Just so we don't create any confusion, that kiss last night — it wasn't for you. Don't make too much of it. For one thing, I'm not into women, and in any case, in my mind in that moment, I was sending it back in time to Anson. To the Anson I fell in love with, a long time ago." She gave a funny, wistful, twisted smile.

I shrugged and said, "Don't worry about it. And thanks." I smiled.

"Don't forget — make sure you see Mukti before you leave. He'll be very disappointed if you're gone when he comes down."

"Is he awake?"

"Oh, yes. He's doing yoga and such. I stuck my head in, to exchange a few words. He'll be down soon, I'm sure."

With that, she was gone.

 

---

 

After my shower, I took note of the brand of shampoo and conditioner Cleo used. It seemed to have a good effect on my hair, leaving it soft, clean, manageable. I liked the scent, too, of the tea-tree oil. It made my scalp tingle.

I studied my face in the mirror. Did I really need makeup? Maybe if I never wore it, I could get away without it. Unfortunately, having seen my face with some makeup, I seemed washed out and tired with no makeup. Still, I didn't have any, so the question was moot in the moment. I would have to take care of that before my job interview tomorrow.

The dress Cleo gave me was a little loose in the bust and a little high on my thigh, but otherwise it fit well. I might consider wearing it tomorrow, to my job interview, if I could call it that.

So! After folding my bedclothes into a neat pile, I returned to the kitchen and poured myself a second cup of coffee. I poked around in the fridge and kitchen cabinets, but the only thing that called out to me were some crackers. They turned out to be slightly stale, so I stuck them back in the cabinet.

I was halfway through my coffee and beginning to feel impatient to leave, when Mukti thumped downstairs and said hello.

Not Namaste, I noted. Just Hello. A point in his favor.

"Hey, how's the ankle?" I asked, by way of greeting. "And all the rest?" I gestured at myself, meaning all his bumps and bruises.

"Oh, everything's healing up. It's work, you know, and time." He opened a cabinet and extracted a can of a chickory-based coffee substitute, which he offered and I declined. "Honestly, the hardest part is writing about it. It's tedious, describing something that changes so little, one day to the next."

"Cleo suggested you might be better off doing a podcast," I offered.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "I don't know how comfortable I am... we'll see."

"Maybe you just need a sidekick, you know? Someone with a sympathetic, interested ear. Someone to act as your soundboard. The way Johnny Carson had Ed MacMahon."

"A bit before my time, but I get the point," he acknowledged. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You could be the sidekick, right? You're sympathetic, interested..." He tilted his head and shrugged, meaning that the conclusion was obvious.

"No," I told him. "I don't want to advertise the fact that I was switched. I'll tell anyone who needs to know, but I don't want the world to know. Especially about my changing from man to woman."

"Okay," he acknowledged, regretfully.

"Someone will turn up," I assured him. "And it doesn't have to be a permanent position, you know. You could bring in different people. People you're interested in talking to."

He nodded, shrugged. Clearly he was considering it, but wasn't completely convinced. i guessed he'd hoped for a simple solution in either me or Cleo, but neither of us were willing.

In any case, as I noted yesterday and noted once again as he moved around the kitchen, Mukti's posture, his bearing, his movements, were much finer and more graceful than mine were, when I lived in that body. Each time I looked at him I sat up a little straighter.

"I don't know whether I mentioned this," he told me, "but you ought to consider taking up yoga. You're young; it will help you stay young, and when you age, it will help you age gracefully."

"I'll think about it."

"And, uh..." he walked around the kitchen island and stood behind my chair. "If you don't mind, I see all this tension in your shoulders." He rested his hands heavily on my shoulders, pushing down.

"I didn't realize I was so tense," I admitted, though I was uncomfortable with his touching me — with his assuming it was fine to touch me.

"This is going to hurt a bit," he said, as he abruptly gripped the flesh between my shoulders and neck with his thumbs and forefingers. He squeezed so hard that I saw a flash of light inside my eyes, and involuntarily I shouted the worst swear word I know.

He let go immediately.

To my astonishment, my shoulders relaxed and eased into a more natural position, like water flowing downward. Clearly, I'd been very tense, and that tension had me squeezing my shoulders up towards my ears.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm can see I'm much more touchy-feely than you." I felt that his sorry was more performative than sincere.

"Uh, well, it feels good now," I admitted, rolling my shoulders and shifting from side to side, "So... thanks for that, but next time could you ask me first?"

He nodded with something like magnanimity, which irritated me more than a little. Even so, he clearly meant well. And I didn't want to offend him, seeing as I wanted his help tomorrow, winning my job back.

"I really ought to get going," I told him. "I've got to get Merope's phone and start digging into her life."

He nodded.

I picked up my new bag — the tiny backpack Cleo gave me. It triggered a sudden flashback to yesterday, when the USB drive came bouncing out of Merope's old bag. I asked, "Mukti — can I use your phone? I want to call the FBI about the USB drive we found."

"Ohhh," he replied, rolling the sounds out slowly, pulling his head back a little. "Normally I'd say sure, but uh — I don't know that it's such a great idea, you know?" He gave me a cautious look. "If you call the FBI from my phone, they're going to call back on my phone, right? And what am I going to tell them? I can't even give them your phone number, because you don't have one."

"Okay, good point," I conceded, but it put another thought in my head. "Still — could I look at your phone for a minute or two, so I can copy some phone numbers? I'll just grab a piece of paper..."

For the first time, I used Merope's cool, expensive pen. It was surprising, how different writing could feel! I never would have thought that such a small thing could make much of a difference, but the pen felt remarkably good in my hand. It was perfectly balanced. It sat in my hand as if it belonged there, and made writing a breeze.

I scrolled through my old contacts, copying names, numbers, and some addresses onto paper.

"There's probably a way I could just send all your contacts to you at once," Mukti mused. "But then again, you'd need to have a number, a phone of your own."

When I finished, I folded the paper in quarters and dropped it and Merope's pen into my bag.

"Are we still on for tomorrow morning?" I asked him.

"Absolutely," he nodded. "What time?"

"Could I pick you up at nine?"

"That'll be fine. How do you want me to dress?"

I considered for a moment. "Be comfortable. Be yourself."

He smiled. "I can do that," he replied with a little laugh.

I got up to leave. Mukti remained seated at the table, smiling, perfectly content. I didn't think there was a way I could politely remind him about the "surprise" Cleo mentioned. Whatever it was, it could wait until tomorrow...

He walked me to the door, when suddenly a light seemed to go on in his head.

"I almost forgot!" he exclaimed. "It was bothering me all yesterday, since our walk! I caught Cleo last night when she came upstairs..."

From his pocket he drew a check, folded in half. "This is for you. Please take it. It's from Cleo and me. And don't worry — I know she was a little... inebriated last night, but I asked her again this morning, and she's good with it. In fact, she signed it this morning. I can't sign checks yet... I guess I'll to practice your signature, you know?"

"Uh, no, you don't," I informed him, holding the folded check in my hand. "You can go down to the bank and give them a new signature card, once you have a signature you like. I guess you could do it after you've changed your name — that would be the perfect excuse."

"Ah! Good point! I didn't know I could do that!"

"Yeah."

"Please take it," he insisted — because I hadn't yet opened it.

"I don't want it or need it," I told him. "Please."

"Okay, listen," he said. "Don't take it as money. Take it as an expression of friendship and goodwill. If you don't take it, I'll understand that you don't want... friendship and goodwill."

I groaned softly in acquiescence. "Okay," I said, opening it out. It was a check to Merope Goddard for $5000, signed by Cleo Charpont. "That's really generous," I told him, my eyebrows bouncing in surprise. "Thanks. And thank Cleo for me."

"No problem," he replied, beaming. "See you tomorrow!"

 

---

 

Friendship and goodwill.

I knew what $5000 would mean to Cleo. She could afford it, especially considering that Mukti was passively receiving income, but only as a one-time thing. It was a lot of money. It was $5000 she couldn't spend elsewhere.

I felt fairly certain that Cleo chose the number: Higher than that, and I'd have refused it. Lower than that, I might have felt snubbed.

Now I had the question of how to turn that friendship and goodwill into money. With Stan's USB, I should be able to find Merope's bank account. I tensed a little at that idea. It wasn't my money, after all. Probably better to open a bank account of my own, and use this check as the initial deposit.

For that, though, I'd need Merope's social security number and a mailing address. I didn't know how long I could rely on Femke's charity... so as a temporary measure, it seemed prudent to rent a box at one of the mailbox stores. That would be better than a post-office box; it would give me a street address to send things to. A lot of businesses won't accept a post-office box as a permament address.

For that, my drivers license ought to be enough. That, and my credit card.

Another sigh: what was the state of Merope's credit? Once I had her phone, I could call the customer service number on her Visa card... once I had her phone.

I stood next to my car, thinking. My obvious next step was to get to Femke's, where I could dig through Stan's USB drive. I didn't need to do any serious digging. At a minimum, once I had her social security number, phone number and carrier, I could make some moves.

I'd also need her social security number to get hired, I reflected. I could find that on her tax returns.

Where to park, though? The garage where Femke parks is pretty expensive — because of the neighborhood. She probably has a monthly contract. An expensive monthly contract.

There were some streets on the outskirts of Teteree where, if I was lucky, I could park without paying. I decided to head there and walk to Femke's house.

As I unlocked my car, my eye was caught by a flash of light. It was the sun glinting off a small, clear plastic bag in the backseat. I opened the rear door and saw that the bag was left for me by the detailers. It contained the items they collected while cleaning my car's interior. Resting my right knee on the back seat, I reached over for the bag, and (by mistake) picked it up by the bottom seam, spilling most of the contents onto the floor.

What remained in the bag was a parking ticket, in its bright orange envelope, and a small notecard, in a small, elegant envelope — the kind you'd use for a wedding invitation or something like.

I bent further, scrabbling for the handful of small items that I'd spilled. It was mostly coins, small change, amounting to 57 cents, as it turned out. There was also two rings and three unmatched earrings. None of them looked costly. There were also eight metal items, tokens, that I knew right away: a thimble, a boot, a Scottie dog, a car, a battleship, a top hat, and a flat iron. They were old Monopoly player tokens. I laughed as I recognized them — a blast from the past. I fumbled a little, gathering them, shifting and stretching awkwardly. After I restored the items to the plastic bag, I felt around under the seat, but there was nothing more to be found.

My pose during all of this was far from dignified. I had one knee resting in the car, on the back seat. My left leg was extended in a straight line, my toes pointing, but not quite touching the ground. My butt was pretty much sticking up in the air.

Suddenly, I felt a warm, wet tongue give a quick lick to my right ankle. I yelped and scrambled my way out of the car, clutching the plastic bag.

"Hey, sorry about that!" said a young male voice. "I tried to stop her, but you know... dogs..." as if the word dogs explained everything.

I became aware of three things at once: the dog, my dress, and the boy next door. The first thing was the dog — because of course, there was a dog: who else would have licked my ankle? Naturally, it was a small and disarmingly cute dog. It had a friendly face that seemed to be smiling. I know nothing about canine breeds, but somehow i knew this one: "Is she a Pomeranian?" I asked, sounding very stupid to myself.

In the same moments that I took in the dog, I also could feel how far my dress had crept up my body. I couldn't help but look down at myself. The hem hadn't risen high enough to make my underwear visible, but it was dangerously close. I had no idea what sort of show I'd put on in back, while my butt was in the air. Rowan's comments about my "bee-hind" echoed in my head, making me blush more than necessary.

Lastly, there was the young man, literally the boy next door. I knew him. His name was Wayne. He was in his early twenties. He stood at six-something. I had to tilt my head back to look him in the face. He was trying to build a business as a personal trainer, and definitely looked the part. I remembered a recent night at his parents' house, where Wayne told us that he "specialized in handstands." His musculature wasn't exaggerated, like a weight lifter, he was lithe, with long, smooth muscles: strong arms and legs, well-developed shoulders and chest, and a flat, powerful midsection.

The encounter hit me so unexpectedly, that my reactions exploded out of my surprise. I was aware of the dog's having licked me — I felt the wet spot on my ankle — and at the same time, a stirring inside me. I took in Wayne's appearance all at once: I didn't need to look him up and down to see it all. He was barefoot, and even his feet looked fit and strong. He wore a pair of red shorts and a dark blue tank top. My eyes rested on his shoulders for a moment longer than they should have.

"I'm Wayne," he said. "Sorry about my dog. I guess she found your ankle irresistable."

"Oh, God," I laughed. It was such a corny line! And yet, I felt a warm sensation radiating from my thighs to my shoulders. "I'm, uh, Merope."

He watched, unembarrassed, unabashed, as I tugged my dress down, pulling it into place.

"Are you friends with Mr and Mrs Charpont?" he asked, gesturing to my old house. "I live next door" — now gesturing to the house on the left. I knew that; As I said, I was acquainted with his parents. I'd seen Wayne grow up.

"Well, friends," I echoed, with a laugh. I looked him in the face. Should I tell him?

Probably it didn't matter. I mean, what were the chances that I'd ever see him again? And yet there was a definite response in me, a glow, a yearning. I felt it in my core. His maleness... his body... his youth... I wanted it. Even if I couldn't have it, I wanted it. Was it crazy of me?

It occurred to me that in every rom-com — in every romantic comedy — there is a moment when one of the characters should tell the truth about something. They ought to tell the truth, but for some idiotic reason they don't. Later on, that lie or omission — call it what you will — comes back to bite them in the ass. And it bites them hard. It takes the entire second half of the movie to set things right again.

"Wayne," I told him, "I know who you are. I used to live in that house" — here I gestured to my own. Wayne gave a puzzled look. "Did you know that Anson, Mr Charpont, was recently a victim of the Switcher?"

Wayne's eyes twinkled. "No, I hadn't heard that."

"Well, he was. And so was I."

Wayne smiled and shrugged. I don't think he believed me. I don't think he believed me at all. His smile twitched. He expected a punch line, and was ready to laugh.

"Wayne, what I'm trying to tell you, is that on the inside, I'm Anson Charpont."

He burst into laughter. "Oh, yeah?" he said. "And I'm — I'm Winston Churchill!" He laughed some more. "What about Mrs Charpont? Did she get switched, too?"

"No. She's still the person she's always been."

"Hmmph," he grunted, as if disappointed, as if everyone switching would have made a better story.

"I'm serious," I told him. "You'll see. Mr Charpont is going to start calling himself 'Mukti' and he'll be teaching yoga—"

"Mukti?" Wayne repeated, incredulous. "Like the jungle boy?"

"No," I answered, scowling. "That's Mowgli. Anway..."

"So," Wayne interrupted, playfully. "If I touch you, will I get switched as well?"

"No, it doesn't work that way."

"Are you sure?"

He reached out slowly with his index finger, grinning, and pushed gently against my shoulder. I felt a rush of energy flow through me; a kind of release. Dear God. I hoped I hadn't wet my pants.

"Nothing happened," he pointed out. How wrong he was!

He stood there, looking at me. His little dog stood patiently nearby, tongue out, panting. My feeling, in that moment, was that he wanted to connect... he wanted to pick me up. I wanted it, too. If he stayed there, if he stood there, I would have stood there, too, like an idiot all day long.

"So, explain this to me," he said. "You got switched, because the Switcher touched you, right? But if *I* touch you... even if I touch you all over, I won't switch?"

"No," I breathed.

"What kind of sense does that make?" he asked, still grinning.

"I don't know," I replied. "But think about vampires: some people get bit and they die, while others get bit and turn into vampires themselves."

"Yeah, I always wondered about that," he said. "I guess there's always a part that's never very well explained."

The fact that I'd just repeated Laura's inane example embarrassed me. It brought me back down to earth. I sighed heavily and said, "Wayne, I have to go."

"Maybe I'll see you," he replied, his eyebrows raised rakishly.

"Maybe. Probably."

I fumbled opening the door, and clumsily climbed inside. I had business that needed doing, and here I was drooling over the boy next door. How far had I fallen?

I felt like a jackass, but I couldn't help it. The impression of his body, of his masculinity, was imprinted on my consciousness, the way a song gets stuck in your head. This was far worse than a repetitive melody, though. It was a feeling that dominated my entire body.

The famous phrase from Bridgerton came to mind: "I burn for you." When I first heard it, I found it silly and melodramatic. Now, like a fool, I was living it.

 

---

 

In spite of all that happened so far today, it was only 9:30 when I got back to Femke's apartment. She wasn't there.

I grabbed my notepad and Merope's pen. I fired up my laptop and plugged in Stan's USB drive. The file explorer window popped open, and my heart sank. There were hundreds of files. None of them were labeled except "birth-certificate.pdf". All the others were sequential, meaningless strings. I opened the birth certificate and jotted down my birthday. And my parents' names. That gave me pause. I'd have to dig into that later.

I copied the files to my laptop; it would be faster and easier to work with them there. Then I'd have the USB drive for backup.

The names of all the other files came in the format MGUSBxxx.pdf, where xxx was a sequential number, starting at 001.

The first one I opened was Merope's 2022 tax return. I jotted down her social security number and forced myself to move on. I closed the file, renamed it 2022-tax-return.pdf and put it in a folder named TAXES.

The first two dozen files were tax returns. I renamed each one and moved them

The next dozen were bank statements from the past year. I started skipping around, opening files more or less at random. I found utility bills, medical bills, old apartment rental contracts, credit card statements...

I was sorely tempted to dig into each and every document, but there simply wasn't time. I needed to find her phone. So I pushed on, renaming files, sorting them, moving on.

It was tedious work, but at long last I hit a phone bill from three months ago. Her carrier had a store at the edge of Teteree, so I closed my computer, grabbed my notes, and took off.

It was a bit of a sweaty walk. On the way, I happened upon a "Mailboxes" store and got myself a mailing address.

When I got to the phone store, I found it was manned by teenagers, but for all their casual airs, they seemed to know what they were doing. The one who helped me was an incredibly skinny girl dressed in tight black clothes. She had two piercings in her nose and a thick blue streak in her hair on one side.

As it turned out, my drivers license wasn't enough to justify myself to her. I also had to pay off the balance due (it was for one month), and I had to give her the passcode to my account.

"The passcode is the same code you use to unlock your phone," she explained when I hesitated.

"And what is it?" I asked her.

She gave me her doubtful look and repeated slowly, as if I were hard of hearing. "It's the code you punch in to unlock your phone."

"I know that," I protested. "It's just that I'm drawing a blank. Can't you tell me what it is?" She shook her head. "Can you reset the phone so I can give it a new code?"

"No," she answered, in a categorical tone. She leaned forward and in a low voice told me, "I can give you your hint, though, if you like. It's good doggie." She grinned.

"Good doggie," I repeated. The sensation of the Pomeranian licking my ankle came to mind. My face burned hot. In my mind's eye I pictured the little creature with her white and light brown fur and her tiny tongue hanging out as she panted...

Next up in my mind's eye's slideshow came the photo of eight-year-old Merope and her German Shepherd. Hal 2001 was written on the back. It was worth a try...

I looked at a telephone keypad. HAL was 425. I told her "4252001," which she punched into her terminal.

"We're in!" she declared.

"Whew!" I exclaimed, and the girl laughed.

She asked me to confirm that my phone was "lost or stolen," and informed me that she was about to suspend service on the existing device. It suddenly occurred to me that if Merope was still using her phone, I'd be cutting her off.

"Wait a minute," I asked. "What happens if I don't cut off service to my old phone?"

The girl looked at me with big eyes, as if doubting my sanity. "You'd be paying for whoever stole or found your phone, and you'd have to get a brand new phone number, because they'd be using yours. You don't want that, do you? You don't want to pay for them, right? You don't even know who they are!"

"No, I guess not," I replied. She rolled her eyes, but in a subtle, almost professional way. Then she walked me through choosing a new plan — which of course involved buying a new phone in installments. She popped in the SIM card and did a bit more setup.

"Now let's get your backup down from the cloud," she said, and a few minutes later Merope's phone was fully restored.

The first thing I did was change the lock code. The only thing that came to mind was Area51 (273251).

From there, I went to the nearest bank and opened an account, depositing the check from Cleo and Mukti.

Now I felt like things were moving.

 

---

 

Back at Femke's, to avoid burnout, I set a Pomodoro timer. I find it useful when I need to do something tedious, or something I *want* to do, but can hardly bring myself to do. Basically, you work for 25 minutes, take a five-minute break, and keep repeating the cycle. Now, for 25 minutes, I processed files from Stan's USB. I opened a file, saw what it was, closed it, renamed it, and moved it into the appropriate folder.

When the timer went off, I logged onto Merope's credit card account online. Now that I had her phone, I could do the "Forgot password" trick that sent a verification request to my phone and let me change the password. Once inside, I changed the mailing address.

Luckily, she'd made a recent payment, and the next one wasn't due for a few weeks.

There weren't any charges since last Friday, the day that I was switched. I assume Merope was switched on Friday as well. So, she didn't appear to be using the card. Even so, after a little hesitation, I reported the card as lost and requested a new one.

That done, I restarted the 25-minute timer and went back to processing files. I realize it might seem obsessive, but until I sorted the entire pile, I wouldn't know what I had.

The next time the timer went off, I got into Merope's bank account. She had $780 there. It made me feel guilty. That, and the thousands I got from her purse had to be all the money she had in the world. How could I feel anything but a thief? Here I was, getting expensive car washes and such. What was Merope doing? Who was Merope now? Was she homeless? Was she hurt?

It occurred to me that Merope's wallet didn't contain a debit card, which meant it was possible, at least theoretically, for Merope to get at the money in her bank account. So I left it as it was.

Then the timer went off again, I got back to slogging my way through the files.

 

---

 

The third time the timer sounded, I'd had enough. I needed a real break. I found a beer in Femke's fridge, and after swallowing a few glugs while standing by the kitchen sink, I remembered the bag of items from the detailers.

I dumped the contents onto my bed. The coins meant nothing — I could just as easily have dug them out of any couch in America. The Monopoly pieces? They tickled my fancy, but I couldn't see them holding any real significance. The parking ticket? I'd have to pay. Getting switched was no excuse. And let me say, parenthetically, that it wasn't any kind of moral sense that impelled me to pay the ticket. It was practical. If you don't pay your parking tickets, eventually your car can be locked up or towed, and a warrant issued for your arrest. I'm sure about both outcomes, because (1) I've seen cars on the street immobilized by a Denver boot, and (2) I remember the satisfaction I felt on hearing of the arrest of a particularly pompous and obnoxious acquaintance. Much to his chagrin and humiliation, he was held overnight, and his car was impounded until he paid all his fines, fees, and interest.

Although, I reflected, I hoped I wouldn't be caught out by the old Merope's transgressions. On the other hand, my cursory dip into her life showed her to be regular and up to date on her financial obligations. The phone bill I had to pay was on the cusp, you might say. I'm sure she would have paid if she had remained Merope for a few more days.

Also, Rowan had assured me that she had no criminal record. I realized that it didn't insure me against unpaid parking tickets, but I could deal with them as they arose.

So... this particular ticket was only $25, anyway. I made a note of the address where the infraction had taken place. It might be a clue to what she was up to before she was switched.

The last item was the best of the bunch. The stationery was elegant, as I said: soft to the touch, substantial. I extracted the card from the envelope, and saw at a glance what it was all about.

It was a love letter to Merope, from someone named Boyce.

 

Merope, Maybe : 14 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"I love you more than anybody in the world…
I love you for millions and millions of things...
[for] lovely hair and being dizzy and falling dreams."
— Dylan Thomas

---

 

Looking at the bottle of beer in my hand, I felt pedestrian. I felt like a lout: holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and the heartfelt expression of this Boyce character in the other.

I hadn't actually read his outpourings yet, but it was clear at a glance that Boyce had bared his heart to my previous...

My previous what? I couldn't call old Merope my previous incarnation. It was the opposite of an incarnation. The Switcher: *he* reincarnated, over and over. The same spirit moved from body to body. His victims, however — we were dispossessed. The old Merope was the previous occupant of my current body. There wasn't a simple, single word for it. Previous occupant might do, but it was unsatisfying.

Anyway... returning to the beer bottle... Now that I knew I was handling a love letter, I wished that I'd poured myself a glass of wine instead. Even so, it was a small bottle of beer, and I was already halfway to the bottom, so I decided to manfully swallow the rest. Once that was done, I could switch to wine, and give the love letter the atmosphere and attention it deserved.

Speaking of atmosphere, Femke did have a half-consumed candle, mounted in an old brass candleholder, sitting on a bookshelf. I took it, found a lighter, poured myself a glass of white wine, and set the three items on a table by the window, along with the love letter.

Then I set to work drinking the rest of the beer.

Weirdly, as easy as the first half went down, the second half seemed denser; more concentrated, more caloric. It felt as though I was shoving a meatball sub down my throat. In spite of the sensation, and what it might do to my waistline, I pushed through. I emptied the bottle, and dropped into the recycling bin under the kitchen sink.

Then — still under the heading of atmosphere, I cleared my laptop and notes off the dining table, and finally sat myself in the chair by the window. I lit the candle, took a small sip of wine, and held Boyce's epistle in my hands.

Femke chose that moment to arrive.

She took in the scene in a glance, and registered a slight frown. After running her eyes over the rest of her apartment, she asked, "Merope, what are you up to?"

"I'm reading a love letter," I replied.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Already? That Javier is a fast worker!"

"What? Javier? No — this is a love letter to Merope."

She made a gesture that said, Of course, that much is obvious! Aloud, she said, "From Javier."

"No. From someone named Boyce." As I spoke, for some reason Wayne came to mind, and my body reacted again, warming internally. I blushed — at least, I blushed inside.

"Who is this Boyce person, and how did you meet him?"

"I haven't met him. He is writing a love letter to the real Merope, the original Merope. The woman who used to live in this body."

Femke shook her head. "It's very early in the day to be drinking wine," she observed. "Have you consumed much of it?"

"No," I answered truthfully. "This is my first glass. I just took my first sip."

"Hmm." In spite of her judgmental observation, she poured herself a glass as well, and sat in the other chair, facing me at an angle. "I'm very confused, Merope. Are you saying that Javier has not written you a love letter?"

"No, he hasn't. Of course he hasn't. No one has written me a love letter."

"Did you spurn him?"

"Spurn him?" I echoed. "Do you mean, did I reject him? No, there's nothing there; there's nothing between us. He's not interested in me, and I'm not interested in him."

Puzzled, Femke scratched above her left eyebrow. "He comes from a very good family, you know. It's something of a mystery, why he ever became a cop, when his brother is a state senator. And there is every indication that he will become a *real* senator in the next election."

"Uh..."

"Also—" Femke continued, speaking a little louder to pre-empt my saying anything, "Also, he has taken an active interest in our adventures up north, in the processing center. I feel assured that he — with the help of his well-placed brother — will make something happen."

"Do you really think that Javier and his brother can overthrow Stan's little empire?"

Femke sighed. "I don't know. Of course, not alone. They will have to find allies. In government agencies and offices and all their bureaucracies, it comes down to who has the strongest lever. Javier's brother is supposedly well-placed, as I said, but does he have the right levers?"

"You make me think of Archimedes: Give me a place to stand, and I shall move the earth."

Femke nodded. She was on the same page. "Archimedes had a shopping list, though. He also needed a lever long enough and a — what is the word? Steunpunt?" She consulted her phone. "Fulcrum? Is that right? Is that a real word?"

"Sure. Fulcrum is a real word. It's the right word."

She cut me off. "Oh, Merope! You've thrown me off track! I was saying that Javier must be taking this interest — not on my behalf, but on yours."

"Oh, please!" I exclaimed, shaking my head and running my hands over my eyes.

"I thought you'd be happy to hear that," she told me, in an innocent tone.

"I'm happy that something might happen up north, to Stan and all his works," I replied. "I'd love to hear that the hammer is coming down on that asshole. On the other hand, I'm quite neutral about Javier, and I think you're wrong about his having any feelings toward me."

She sipped her wine.

"Be that as it may," she told me, sweeping aside the topic with a wave of her hand. "How is this love letter that you're holding? Do you feel that you'd like to connect with this — what is his name? Jongen?"

"Boyce," I corrected. I held up the card. "I feel obliged to point out that this is fancy stationery. See? Good quality paper. His monogram is embossed on the front."

"BRR," Femke read.

"Brrr!" I exclaimed, pretending to shiver. I opened the card and turned it for her to see. "He has nice handwriting," I observed.

"Too many loops and curly things." She waved her hand dismissively. "How can you trust a man who writes with such ornamentation?"

I shrugged. "I wish my handwriting was that... pretty. No, not pretty! Elegant! I don't mean pretty... I mean elegant."

"Let's hear this thing," Femke demanded, gesturing at the card a little impatiently.

I cleared my throat, took a sip of wine, and began to read.

Dear Merope!

I need you to know that my life began today, when you walked into my office. Were you aware of how stunned I was, how profoundly I was struck by how beautiful you are? I must have behaved like a perfect idiot. Did you feel the electricity I felt, when I handed you the Proof of Employability form and our fingers touched?

I attached my pen to this note. I want you to have it. I lent it to you — the first time I've ever let another living soul handle it. I couldn't help it; I wanted you to touch it. It's special to me. I wanted to share that specialness with you. When you handed the pen back to me, your touch was still alive on it. I felt your warmth still there. What an exquisite feeling! I'm giving you the pen to keep, and I hope you can feel my touch on it, the way that I felt yours.

More than giving it — I *surrender* it to you. Try to understand that it's not simply a pen that I put in your hands. I'm giving you my heart as well. And I never want it back. I only want to know it rested, at least for a moment, in your warm, beautiful hands.

I can't wait until I see you again. Tonight. And tomorrow. And forever.

All my best and strongest feelings,

Yours, Boyce

"Is that all?" Femke asked when I paused.

"Isn't that enough? But no, you're right — there is more. There's a postscript on the back: I think I would die, if you were to ignore me. A fool could see, just how much I adore you."

Femke pondered for a moment, her lips moving slightly. She asked me to read the postscript again. Then she grabbed her phone and punched away with her thumbs. After some scrolls and jabs, she laughed. "The Divinyls," she announced. "It's a quote from I Touch Myself." She laughed, then played the song for me.

"I don't know what to say," I told her, as the song played. "I feel guilty... and embarrassed — I've never read anyone's love letters before."

"A good love letter ought to be embarrassing!" Femke declared. "He's done very well there! He risks making a fool of himself to a woman he hardly knows. He lays his heart at her feet, knowing she could set her pretty foot on it."

"He gave her an expensive present, right at the start," I observed. "At least now we know where the pen came from."

Femke shrugged, unimpressed.

She abruptly changed topic. She was done with the love letter. "So, Merope: did you clean your car?"

"Yes, I did! Inside and out! That's how I found this little letter. I also got Merope's phone. I've gotten a lot done! Tomorrow, I'm going to try to get my old job back."

"Oh, yes — your old job. When you left, did you quit abruptly? Did you burn any bridges?"

"No, that's not my style. I simply retired. There are no hard feelings. I'm pretty sure they still need me. I ought to be able to drop right back into my old place."

"Programming cobols," she recalled.

"Pretty much," I acknowledged.

Femke took a thoughtful sip of wine and fixed me with her eye. "Tell me, something. Now that you are the new Merope, when you read that letter, are you feeling... are you pretending... that this Jongen has written to you?"

"Boyce," I corrected, then answered, a little irritated, "Of course not."

"Oh," she gently scoffed. "Do you think you're above all the silly, girlish feelings? There is the song: Everybody Plays The Fool, Sometimes."

"I guess," I admitted. "But not for Javier, and not for Boyce."

 

---

 

We talked about one thing and another. She told me about her visit to court, where Rowan and Javier were called to testify. She was impressed by the seriousness, by the plain decor of the courtroom, by the efficient and clear process, by the lawyers, and above all by the judge. "She admonished people," she recalled, smiling, "She used that word — and the people did exactly as she ordered. She had an officer, she called him bay—, bay-something—"

"Bailiff," I told her. "It's a court officer."

"Yes, I know. We have a similar word in Dutch."

She also enjoyed the precision involved, the level of proof that was obviously demanded, implicitly and explicitly.

However... she was soon bored, especially since Rowan was unable to sit with her. "He was not allowed," she explained, "because he had yet to testify."

I nodded. "Did you eventually see him take the stand?"

"Yes. I was quite proud of him. The defense lawyer grilled him, trying to find fault in every little thing. But Rowan stood up to it well. He didn't lose his temper or say anything foolish."

"That's the main thing in testifying," I commented glibly. "What was the trial about?"

"They didn't say," she told me. "At this point in the trial they were quibbling over details, so it was impossible to guess. It reminded me of the blind men and the elephant, even if I was one of the blind men."

 

---

 

We both finished our wine at about the same time, although I was a few steps ahead of her in terms of alcohol consumption.

"I'd suggest we have dinner, but it's far too early," Femke commented, after consulting her watch. "Do you have anything we could do together?"

"Uh, well, the next thing I should do is call the FBI about those cylinders," I responded. "But that's just a *me* thing, not an *us* thing."

She responded by touching her phone and saying, "FBI office near me."

The phone spoke back: "The nearest FBI office is 23 miles away, in Springfield. Do you want directions?"

"Let me see the phone number," I told her, and punched it into my phone. I put it on speaker so Femke could listen.

A male voice answered: "FBI field office, Springfield."

"Hello," I said. "My name is Merope Goddard, and I want to report some... industrial espionage. Can you help me?"

"I can take a message," he replied. "I'll make sure it gets to the right people here, and they'll get back to you, if they require further information."

"Great," I said. I told him I'd been switched, and how I'd seen the Switcher pocket the four cylinders; then later, how we'd found the USB with plans and programs on it.

He asked me when and where I was switched; when and where I found the USB. He asked whether I'd officially checked in with the Switcher processing center, and when I'd done so.

"The center told me that they'd pass this information through the proper channels," I told him. "So I expect that you already have this information. Except about the USB. That's new."

"I'll pass that along with your message," he responded. "By the way, do you know which company was involved in this... matter?"

"Which company?" I repeated, not getting his meaning.

"Who did the Switcher steal this property from?"

"I don't know," I told him. "I didn't see any company logos or copyright notices or anything like that."

"Okay," he acknowledged. "Is there anything else?"

"No, I think that's everything."

He verified my name and phone number and said someone from the office would be in touch.

After we ended the call, Femke observed, "He didn't sound convinced."

I shrugged. It hardly mattered; all the man had to do was pass the message along.

 

---

 

Femke helped me choose an outfit for my job interview. It was a peach shift dress and a pair of pale beige heels. It was comfortable. Casual, but classy, I thought.

The next morning I begged her to do my makeup one last time, but she refused. After some negotiation, she agreed to supervise while I did my face. Some doubtful looks crossed her face as I worked, but didn't give any real guidance or corrections. She only told me at the end, "You'll get better. Besides, there are only men in this office, am I right?" I nodded, so she said, "I'm sure that no matter how inaccurate your makeup, they will consider you the next Miss America."

Did that mean I'd done it badly? As far as I could see, it was fine.

"As with everything, there are tutorials on YouTube," was the only help she gave me.

 

---

 

At three minutes past nine I pulled up in front of Cleo and Mukti's house. Mukti was nowhere to be seen, but Wayne was there, walking his little dog. As if he hadn't moved since I last saw him, Wayne was wearing the same clothes as the day before, if you could call them clothes: red shorts, dark blue tank top. Again he was shoeless. He walked up next to my car and touched the door handle. His eyes fell on my legs. I immediately checked the hem of my dress. It covered me. Good.

Wayne opened the door. I put my hand on the doorframe, and climbed out. Wayne's face went through some dramatic changes, registering astonishment and unexpected pleasure. It all happened so quickly — too quickly for me to correct my movements. I gave him a clear and unobstructed view of my underwear. Somehow I managed to not blush.

Jumping up, I brushed off my skirt, though there was nothing to brush off other than embarrassment. I tuggled it down in back, even though it was already in place.

I almost apologized, but managed to bite my tongue.

"Hello!" Wayne greeted me, his face full of delight. "You've come back for more."

Right on cue, the little dog trotted up and licked my left ankle.

"Is that the... same ankle as yesterday?" he asked, pointing.

"Yes," I confirmed, pressing my lips tight together.

"I'd love to know what she's going for, down there," Wayne teased.

I shook my head to signify that I had no idea. Out loud I asked, "What's your dog's name?"

"Pom-Pom," he replied. "Kind of obvious. My mother was a cheerleader, long ago. Hard to imagine, but true."

Actually, it wasn't hard to imagine. Far from it. Wayne's mother was young, quite a bit younger than Wayne's father, and she was in great shape. As Anson, I'd admired her, and inevitably had fantasies about her. Of course, to Wayne, she was nothing but "Mom."

"You must have been a cheerleader, too, I'm sure," Wayne offered, giving me a playful nudge.

I hedged a bit, then told him, "Wayne, look. I told you: I was switched. I'm Anson Charpont. I haven't the faintest idea whether the person who used to occupy this body was a cheerleader, but I, as Anson, never was."

"Right," he responded, nodding slowly, still not believing. Then, as if I hadn't spoken, he said, "Listen, I believe that fortune favors the bold. Have you heard that? I'm going bold right now, so get ready. I feel we've got chemistry, right? You feel it. I'm sure you do. I mean, I know this: I like you and I'm pretty certain that you like me. And when I say we like each other, I mean..." Here he made a slow gesture with his hands, palms down, fingers slowly opening, palms slowly turning up. It wasn't a gesture with a real meaning, but I understood what he was trying to show me: it was energy. Energy unfolding. Energy inside each of us, warm, glowing, reaching out to the other. He studied my face as my thoughts flitted across, and he finished by stating, "You know what I mean, don't you."

"Yeah," I admitted in spite of myself, and involuntarily licked my lips. I mean, my tongue popped out and wet my lips. It wasn't as though I did some kind of gross circle with my tongue around the outline of my mouth. Even so, I shocked and embarrassed myself, but I had to admit, Wayne was right: I wanted him. I actually trembled slightly. But only slightly. I don't think he noticed.

"Listen," he continued, glancing up at my old front door. Mukti had just emerged. "There's a place on Olduvai called the Golden Farthing. Do you know it?"

"Uh, it rings a bell."

He gave a sly, sideward grin. "Perhaps you know it as the Golden Farting." He cackled at his own joke.

"Let's hope not," I muttered, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, aware that the ground was shifting.

"What do you say we meet there tonight? Say, 9:30?"

"Nine-thirty?" I repeated. Nine-thirty! It seemed awfully late. I never was a party person.

He took his eyes off me a moment to glance up at Mukti, who had almost reached my car.

"Great!" Wayne enthused. "It's a date!" He turned to lead his dog away and down the street. "Hey there, Mr Charpont!" he called, giving an over-the-shoulder wave. I very nearly waved back, like an idiot. "Mr Charpont," I muttered to myself.

Mukti, for his part, waved magnanimously to Wayne, grinning. To me he said, "Mr Charpont, huh? That'll take some getting used to."

"Tell me about it," I agreed.

"Oh, yes, and you! You'll have to get used to NOT being Mr Charpont, won't you!" he chuckled.

 

---

 

I had meant to use our time in the car to prepare Mukti: to give him the low-down on Leon, my old boss. I wanted Mukti to have a clear sense of who we'd be talking to. I didn't expect to be able to work out anything as exalted as a strategy, but at least we could get on the same page as far as our general approach and work out a couple possible tactics, depending on Leon's reactions.

Unfortunately, after being so thoroughly knocked off balance by Wayne, I hadn't yet recovered my equilibrium. Strategy and tactics were the farthest thing from my mind.

While I struggled to get a grip on my inner turmoil, Mukti took the conversational rudder.

He regaled me with the progress of his podcast, which was "getting underway" and "would soon be full-steam-ahead." He spent virtually all of yesterday calling around his circle of friends — other yoga teachers, students, and spiritual fellow-travelers — to update them on his having been switched. By Mukti's telling, they were uniformly charmed and delighted by the news. Not only was Mukti the first switcher victim of their acquaintance, he was a kindred spirit and happy to share the working out and working through of his experience. To each of his friends and acquaintances he mentioned the idea of a podcast. The idea was enthusiastically received, and as it turned out, a name came up: a friend of a friend, who had experience producing podcasts.

"Her name is Linda... Linda with a complicated last name. I'm embarrassed to say I couldn't grasp it on the fly. But I'll get it. Anyway, I've spoken to her, and she's all in. You see, Linda recently finished a series, and was casting around for a topic. See, she has the experience, the talent, to DO a podcast, but she was lacking the WHAT — the subject — the focus for the podcast to center on."

"Sounds good," I commented, silently kicking myself for getting more-or-less tricked into a date with someone ten years younger than me (physically) and forty years my junior (in life experience)! Even so (as Wayne had pointed out), the attraction was there. Oh God, it was there in spades. I knew I was being foolish, but I couldn't pass it up.

Still, while one part of me was shouting go, go, go! another part of me was analyzing the situation and metaphorically kicking myself for going along. I hadn't become a teenager, after all, so I couldn't blame hormones. Or could I? What did I know, really, about hormones. And then, what about pheromones? Adults can have pheromones; I was pretty sure. Could I blame pheromones? Are pheromones this strong? And if Wayne was blasting pheromones at me, could they possibly affect me at a distance? When he wasn't there? Did they stick on me, or infect me?

The mostly likely answer, though, was that I was overthinking it. That it came down to one simple thing: a strong physical desire. I was young again and I'd met someone whose desire keyed into mine.

Intellectually, I could tell myself that I was acting foolishly, but my body didn't find it a compelling argument.

I mean, it wasn't even a case of "the heart wants what the heart wants." It was the body that wanted what it wants. It was like being hungry or thirsty, or needing to use the restroom. It doesn't matter what your heart or head have to say in the matter. The body wins out.

Even if I *could* stop myself — and I wasn't sure I could — but even if I *could* stop myself, I knew I there was no way that I would. I knew I'd be at the Golden Farthing tonight. I'd probably get there early, in my shortest dress and my highest heels.

Dear God.

The worst part was that — as I said — I could feel the attraction, the burning, even when Wayne wasn't there. It consumed me. As Mukti and I got out of my car and walked across the parking lot toward my old office building, it was there: Wayne's presence... his influence... my almost palpable attraction for him. I could feel it, like a blanket, over my whole body. It made me clumsy and self-conscious. I almost tripped, stepping over the curb, feeling the effect of his touch, of his grin, of his little dog licking my ankle.

What was up with that, anyway? What it simply that the Pomeranian couldn't reach any higher?

Inside, in my head space, it was there. Like the boom-boom-boom of massive loudspeakers at a concert. It drownd out everything else. It was like swimming in the ocean. I had to make an effort to stick my head up and out of the water, if I wanted to think about anything else.

Mukti followed me into the building, into the elevator. Having gone this route every workday for decades, I moved on autopilot. We made our way down the hall, my steps progressively slowing as we grew nearer to the door. Once we reached it, I stopped dead and rested my hand on the doorknob. Mukti glanced at me, smiling patiently, benevolently. If I stood still, he stood still. If I moved, he moved, ready to go where I went, to follow and second anything I said or did.

"Mukti," I told him in an undertone — not wanting to be heard by anyone within — "if anyone tries to do more than greet you, if anyone tries to start a conversation or ask you questions, tell them to give you a moment, okay? Tell them you need to talk to Leon first, all right? I don't want to get bogged down. If we're not careful, we'll end giving the same explanation many times over. We'll lose control of the situation. It's best if we get to Leon first."

"Got it," he acknowledged.

"Leon's office is at the far end. We'll breeze through the code floor, get into Leon's office, close the door, and convince him."

"The code floor?"

"Yeah. That's what Leon calls it. It's just... where everybody works. That's all. It's just a group of desks. If I'm lucky, my desk will still be empty."

"Great."

"Okay, here we go." I took a breath, then paused again. "One more thing," I cautioned, sotto voce. "Leon is a nice guy, but he's very rigid. Very rules-oriented. Even though we're asking him to bend the rules, or ignore the rules — or maybe we're saying there are no rules that govern this — we can't actually say those words. He has to be able to pretend that everything he's doing is normal, usual, justifiable; everything on the up-and-up."

Mukti nodded. "Got it."

I opened the door and stepped briskly inside. Mukti followed, and closed the door behind him. He noisily fumbled with the knob, trying three times to make the door stay shut. This gave everyone at their desks a chance to give the pair of us a good once-over. Five sets of eyes glanced at me, then at Anson, then back to me again. I felt their collective gaze drag over me, from foot to head and aback again, like an X-ray scan.

No subtilty. As Femke had foreseen, they were all men, in an enclave in which women were rarely seen.

A little impatiently I signalled with my head to start walking. Mukti followed, but couldn't resist saying hello to everyone. He had a "Hey there" or a "What's up?" or a handshake for each person we passed. However, he behaved himself: he didn't dally; he didn't dither. He didn't start any conversations. He short-circuited every question by pointing ahead and saying, "Gotta talk to the big man. Later, right?"

Leon stood at the window of his office. He was young, in his mid-thirties. He spent an hour every morning in the gym, and it showed. His posture was perfect. His chest was a bit puffed out, like a rooster's, and his coif was perfect: never a hair out of place. His shirt was perfectly white with nary a winkle. His tie was Tiffany blue and looked as though he'd bought it that morning.

Leon was a static entity. He always looked the same, behaved the same. Only the color of his tie varied. If you asked him a question today, and asked the same question tomorrow, or two weeks from now, or two years from now, Leon would always give the same response.

We used to joke that Leon was the incarnation of a flow-chart. A flow-chart works something like this:

- Are you wearing a hat?
- Yes?
- Are you indoors?
- Yes?
- Take off your hat.

The point is, that if you needed something from Leon, you couldn't appeal to his intuition, to his sense of propriety or justice, or even to his common sense. You wouldn't get any credit for creativity from Leon. You needed to hit the right keys, and only the right keys; If you satisfied the rules in Leon's head, you got the desired outcome.

... which was a problem for me. I'm felt pretty sure that Leon's internal set of rules hadn't been updated to include the Switcher.

Another difficulty was that Leon was the only decision maker. Our company was small. We had no Human Resources department. Leon was the ultimate authority when it came to hiring and firing. Certainly there were powers and authorities above him, but they were distant, nameless, and far away.

Frankly, I didn't have a plan of approach to Leon. It would have been smart to discuss it with Cleo. She understands people — especially quirky people — and probably could have provided some practical advice.

Well... if this foray was unsuccessful, I could try running it by Cleo; see if she could give me a basis for making a second appeal.

At present, I figured Leon's ruleset regarding me ran this way:

- Does Anson want to come back to work?
- Yes?
- Is his old position open?
- Yes?
- Do you need another programmer?
- Yes?
- Hire him back.

My problem was that I needed to insert this equivalence:

- Merope equals Anson

I don't think he had any rules that could help me in that regard.

Regardless: step one was to get into Leon's office and close the door. I'd swept through the code floor: a set of six desks — one of them empty — past five sets of eyes strafing me as I passed. Mukti was close behind, waving, glad-handing, but not slowing down, not stopping.

So far, so good.

Until we hit two wrinkles. The first was that someone was in Leon's office. Someone was sitting in Leon's chair. I didn't see her until virtually the last minute, when she swiveled, turning the back of Leon's chair away, revealing a young woman with blonde hair that fell in waves to her shoulders.

The second wrinkle was Dave: the last coder on the right. He wouldn't let go of Anson's hand, and insisted on trying to engage.

Mukti did his best to protest, to free his hand. He pointed toward Leon's office. It did no good. Dave persisted. He didn't let go.

Impatiently, I turned. I grabbed both their wrists and pulled their hands apart. "We need to talk to Leon," I told Dave in a stern voice. "They'll be time for talking after."

"Jeez!" Dave protested. "Chill out, lady, huh?"

I turned, and Mukti followed me into Leon's office.

In that moment, I recognized the woman. It was Carrie, Leon's wife. She was about the same age as Leon. They met while getting their MBAs, and married soon after. She managed to keep an executive position with an investment firm while taking care of their two children.

I didn't actually know her. We'd met a handful of times, at office parties, or briefly when she brought the kids to visit.

In the present moment, she was a wildcard. I didn't know whether her presence helped me or hurt me. The fact that she was there might pre-empt me entirely. Leon could simply say he couldn't talk right now. He could force me to reschedule and lose the element of surprise.

"Anson?" Leon exclaimed, his eyes fixed on Mukti. "I certainly didn't expect to see you! Are you looking to come back to work?"

Carrie, comfortably ensconced in Leon's chair, oscillated slowly back and forth, and let her gaze play over Mukti and me. She had an interested, sly look — she sensed that a game was afoot.

"Well," Mukti replied, with a glance at me, "that's what we've come to discuss."

"We?" Leon asked, glancing at me. "And, who is this exactly?" He held out his hand to me.

"Merope Goddard," I said, taking his hand. involuntarily, I turned to look at Carrie.

Carrie fixed her eyes on Mukti. "It's good to see you again, Anson," she said with a smile.

"Ah, yes," he replied. "Always a pleasure."

"Look," I told them both, cutting to the chase, "Here's the situation: the two of us have been switched. A few days ago we each encountered the Switcher. Now I'm Anson Charpont, and he's Mukti Endecott."

Carrie, delighted, smiled. Her eyes sparkled. "I knew something was up! It's like Freaky Friday, isn't it?" she laughed.

"Well, yes, I guess it is," I admitted. "Except that I'm not his mother."

Mukti's eyebrows went up. "And we can't switch back," he added.

Carrie laughed. "This is just... precious!"

"Oh no, oh no," Leon said, raising his hand in a stop gesture. "I think I see where this is going." He pointed at me. "You want to work here, and your ploy is saying that you're him." [He pointed to Mukti.]

"He's quick," Mukti observed, in an aside to me.

"It's not a ploy," I protested. "It's a fact."

Carrie pressed her palms together, smiling, nodding, taking in the scene.

"A fact?" Leon echoed. "Can you... *document* this fact? Can you provide me with a... I don't know... a statement, an affidavit from one of those... what do you call them?"

"Processing centers," I offered.

"Exactly. Can they substantiate your claim that you are now... internally at least... Anson Charpont?"

"No," I replied. "They don't do that."

"Hmmph," Leon grunted. We'd already hit a terminal point in his rule logic.

"Look, Leon, I've been dropped into this body, but everything I know about Cobol, programming, compilers, clients — everything! — it's all in here." I tapped my head. "I need a job, and unless something's drastically changed in the past two weeks, you need me."

Leon stiffened and shook his head. "How could I possibly justify hiring you? Do you even have a resume?"

"No."

"Do you see my problem? You have no demonstrable experience, and yet you want a job. I suppose you think you can simply pick up where you left off — same duties, same pay?"

"Well, yes, of course! I'm the same person on the inside."

Leon's face was a mask of distinct discomfort. "I'm afraid it would stink of impropriety. I mean, a person your age, a new hire, earning more than some of the men sitting out there who've been here for... years!"

"Decades, even," I threw in. "Look," I challenged, "I can tell you everything about this business — the work we've done, what's on the roadmap for the year ahead. I can tell you the history of anything here. Give me some work to do, and you know I'll get it done."

Leon twisted and shifted as if in pain. "Yes, but who are you? I mean, look. Let's say I believe you — that you're Anson Charpont—"

"Come on, Leon," I pushed back hard, "You do believe me. You know who I am."

"Okay. Okay. I believe you. I know who you are, inside, let's say. But legally, on paper, how do I demonstrate that? Is there any other govenment entity, on any level, that can give me a piece of paper that I can shake in anyone's face to justify hiring you in your previous position?"

"No. Unfortunately no one will do that."

"Then, I'm sorry. I'm genuinely sorry, Anson. There's nothing I can do. My hands are tied. I could take you on as an intern..."

"An unpaid intern." It wasn't a question.

"To start."

Mukti gestured helplessly. He wanted to offer something, to say something, to give something, but he had nothing to give.

"Leon, try to see this from my point of view. Where else am I going to go? What else am I going to do? Work as a temp? As a typist?"

Leon shrugged apologetically.

"The problem is that I can't justify hiring you."

I searched my brain for another tack, another way to come at him, but drew a blank.

"Okay," I said, "I'm sorry."

"Maybe you could get some kind of training... or certification...," he offered, vaguely.

I straightened up. I was about to turn and go, when Carrie spoke.

"Anson, wait. Leon, what are you doing?" she asked.

"What do you mean, what am I doing?" he replied. "I'm doing what I have to do."

"No," she said. "Let's take a step back and ask ourselves: how many people are in Anson's situation right now? Or — Merope's situation? Mukti's situation? They have skills, they have histories, they have abilities and experience, but no one recognizes it."

"Naturally," he said. "That's the problem. The government could close that gap with a simple document."

"Forget what the government could or would or should do. The question is, what can you do? *You* could be the vanguard," she offered. "You could be the first. Leon, you complain that your company is invisible. That nobody knows you. Nobody knows what you do. Everyone believes that Cobol has had its day." She gestured at me. "Merope has given you a way to change that."

Leon scowled. He took a deep breath, but he didn't speak.

"If you take her back, exactly where she left off, think what that would mean."

He gestured helplessly.

"Think what a story that would be. What do we know about people who've been switched?"

He thought for a moment. "Nothing."

"Exactly! Nobody knows! What do you think happens to them? They go home, they go back to their old lives, and everyone says, I don't know you. Who are you?." She looked at Mukti and me. "Does that sound about right?"

"I think so," I answered. "I met one young girl in particular who is pretty messed up. I don't know whether she'll recover."

"So what are you suggesting I do?" Leon demanded.

"Give Anson her old job back!" Carrie declared.

Leon hesitated, looking at each of us in turn.

Carrie asked me, "Do you have your own social security number? and proof of employability? As Merope?"

"Yes."

"There you go!" she challenged Leon.

Leon groaned and sighed, as if in physical pain.

"Come on, Leon!" she coaxed. "You'll be a hero. Think about that."

He considered it. The muscles in his jaw worked the idea over. He heaved a few deep breaths. He didn't like being the vanguard. He didn't want to be a hero. And yet, he knew that Carrie was right.

"Okay," he acquiesced, grudgingly. "You can start tomorrow. Entry-level salary."

"What?" I exclaimed. "Are you asking me to do entry-level work?"

"Of course not!" he replied. Carrie gave him a cautionary look.

"Okay, okay!" he said. "Tomorrow, at your previous pay rate. Just... don't tell the others."

Carrie nodded, satisfied.

"Leon, you and I will have to talk about the PR aspect of re-hiring her." She looked at me. "Are you okay with that? With being a story? A face and a name people will see on the news?"

"Yes," I agreed. "If that's what it takes."

"We're going to hire a smart publicist," Carrie said to Leon. "Someone who knows how to manage a story like this, and make the most of it."

Leon looked as though he suddenly developed a case of indigestion, but he nodded.

"Good move, dude," Mukti assured him, resting his hand on Leon's shoulder.

Carrie smiled, and turned to Mukti. "Now tell us, what's your story?"

"My name is — or was — Mukti Endecott. I was a thirty-three year old yoga teacher." He turned to look at Leon. His heavy hand still rested on Leon's shoulder. He gave Leon a friendly shake. "I can help you with that knot in your shoulder, if you'll let me."

Leon sighed heavily one last time, and moved a little so Mukti could stand behind him. Turning to me said, "Do you remember the Borrow Borough? That's going to be your account." He made it sound like punishment. (And it was.)

"Looking forward to it," I told him, feeling like soldier assigned to the front.

 

Merope, Maybe : 15 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

Buckaroo Banzai: You remind me of someone I once knew.
Penny Priddy: Was she... very beautiful?
— The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension [1984 film]

---

 

After Leon gave in to Carrie's revolutionary plan, Mukti dug deep into Leon's soft shoulder flesh until he yelped and — to Leon's profound astonishment — found relief from a pain and tightness he'd nearly grown used to.

Leon's abrupt yelp was enough to bring the entire code floor to its feet in alarm. Dave panicked, knocking on the door rat-a-tat-tat-tat and calling out in a high, frightened voice, "Everything all right in there?"

Leon opened the door a crack, stuck his head into the room, looked each of the men in the face, and reassured Dave (and the rest of the crew) that everything was fine. "I just had a surprise...," he said. "A big surprise." Then, not wanting to get stuck explaining, he added, "I'll tell you all later."

The "later" for the code crew didn't come for a full fifteen minutes, when Carrie finally released us. She laid out a preliminary plan for a public-relations strategy. She talked about managing the media, about interviews and appearances. She was intent on securing promises, on making sure we all found ourselves on the same page, and that we — mainly Leon and myself — were willing to be scrutinized, questioned, and no doubt criticized and even mocked.

"You, too, Mukti," she added. "Since you're the old Anson. You've got something to say as well."

"No doubt," he responded.

Then Carrie asked us for our contacts. "Do you mean our phone numbers?" I asked her, pulling out my phone.

"Well, sure, of course your numbers, but I meant your contact numbers with the Switcher processing people."

Mukti and I frowned, not understanding.

She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. "I mean, the names, the phone numbers. The ones they gave you."

"Nobody gave us anything," I told her. Mukti said the same.

"At the end of your Switcher processing," Carrie insisted, as if we were holding out on her. "They must have given you someone, some agency... something! someone! to keep in touch with. Someone monitors your progress, right? Somebody checks in on you? To see how you're getting along?"

"No, they don't do that," I informed her. "I was specifically told that not only do they *not* do that, they never did that."

"You must be mistaken," Leon told me. "That makes no sense whatsoever. So what do they do? Take your name and send you home? No way." He and Carrie asked the same question in several different ways, as if Mukti and I didn't understand what they wanted. Eventually they gave up, but they clearly didn't believe us.

"I'm going to find out," Carrie declared. "I'm surprised at the two of you, letting something like that slip! There has to be an information service, or a clearinghouse, or a tracking system."

I didn't bother to comment.

 

---

 

We had a brief hello/goodbye/see-you-tomorrow with the men on the code floor. — It was fun, for as long as Leon allowed it to last. The general reaction was incredulity mixed with welcome. At first, most of them thought it was a practical joke — an idea that didn't last very long. Leon would never be party to anything so frivilous, so not-rule-based, but once the coders began to grill me, asking questions only Anson would know, they were quickly convinced.

Something else that didn't escape their notice was the difference in Mukti's bearing. "His posture is better than yours," Dave commented. "He walks in a... smoother way. He's a lot more relaxed than you were."

 

---

 

Mukti had generally kept his mouth shut while Carrie outlined her PR campaign, but the moment we got in my car and closed the doors, he grabbed my arm and confided, "There's a very obvious next step for the two of us here, dude."

"What next step would that be?"

"The podcast!" he exclaimed. "Are you kidding me? I mean, I never considered THIS aspect of life after switching! This whole question about employability! See, I've always been self-employed: I've had to market myself, find clients, keep clients... and for me, that hasn't changed. But someone who has a full-time job... who can't rely on simply demonstrating what they know... I mean, your world, this world, where your resume is required... where, if you don't tick all the boxes, you don't even exist... It's just..." He shook his head in disbelief. "I mean, wow."

"Yeah," I agreed, in an isn't it obvious? tone. "That's why I wanted you to come with me. There's no objective, documented way for me to prove that I was switched. Especially to someone like Leon. It *is* like trying to land a job without experience, without a resume. I do have a resume, though, I just can't use it."

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded. "Think about all the people who were switched, and then cast out into the world. It's like—" he opened his hands, searching for an image "—it's like a vast shipwreck in a huge, dark ocean. It's so dark that we can just barely see the people floating right next to us, while out there, in the near distance, in the far distance—" he opened his arms to gesture at the entired world "—there are.. how many? Hundreds, thousands of people? Fighting to keep their heads above water." He gaped at me, earntestly struck by the enormity of it. His eyes teared a little. "Think of all that pain! that suffering! And who is helping them? Who, Merope? Who?"

"No one," I said, and turned my head away. The look on his face was loaded with pathos, and I wasn't in the mood to cry. I was too irritated. Even though I'd done what I came to do, all I'd really done was get my old, crappy job back -- and I had to beg for it. Yay, me, right?

At the same time, I knew I had no right to complain. In similar situations, most Switcher victims would be shit out of luck.

Mukti gave my arm a shake. "Dude, you have to help with this podcast. You have to."

"Okay," I agreed. "I will. But can we hold off until Carrie gets her shit underway? I mean, for one thing, I really need this job, and for another, she has the resources to make things happen. Not just for me, but for all Switcher victims, I think."

He gave a doubtful, sideward smile. "We'll try to coordinate," he promised. "But remember — she doesn't own this issue. And I don't want her stealing *my* opportunity to do good."

"I understand," I told him. "It's just, maybe, a matter of timing?"

He looked thoughtful. "Maybe *she* could be our first interview." He thought some more. "I don't know. I have to run it by Linda. I'm sure she'll have ideas on timing, sequence, buildup, payoff. Right! Merope, can you drop me at Linda's house? I need to bring her up to date, hear her reactions... We need to plan, project, manifest." He nodded.

Then he added, "Don't worry. I'll do my best with Carrie. I don't have her number though, do you?"

"Ah... no. I'll get it from Leon tomorrow morning and text it to you, okay?"

 

---

 

After dropping Mukti off, I became aware of a buzzing. It was my phone. My new phone... so not a familiar buzz.

The buzz signified a missed call. I had turned off the ringer while visiting Leon. I didn't want a random call interrupting my interview. I turned it back on now, and listened to the message.

"This is Agent Lassrop with the Springfield FBI office. I got your message about, uh, alleged industrial espionage? Do you think you could drop by our office tomorrow? We'd like to get some more details. Give us a call back, and, uh, hopefully we'll see you tomorrow."

I didn't like the tone of Agent Lassrop's message. He sounded pushy and arrogant. That frat boy Paul from the processing center came to mind.

Even so, I had a civic duty to report what I knew.

However, tomorrow wasn't going to work. Tomorrow is my first day on the job. I wanted to sit in my old chair: take ownership, take possession. Occupy.

I checked the time on my phone: nearly ten after ten. Why not go see the FBI today? It was twenty-something miles, if I remembered correctly.

I called the number back and was told that they'd be happy to see me now.

 

---

 

Twenty-five minutes later I pulled up outside a one-story office building in Springfield. It was on the edge of town, with grass and trees all around. The facade wasn't very wide, but the building ran deep.

There was no shade whatsoever in the parking lot, so I parked close to the entrance. The sun came in at an angle, lighting my car's interior. It made me glance at my legs. I was still wearing the peach shift dress, which showed a fair amount of leg. Nothing indecent, of course. Femke helped me choose it, specifically for my interview. Office attire, but not too dressy. If it was good enough for Leon and the crew, it would be fine for the FBI.

However— it did make me realize that I needed to start shaving my legs. I'd pick up the necessaries on the way home. It'd be smart to shave before my date tonight, too, I realized, my face reddening.

Regarding the FBI: I thought that I had no expectations, but as it turned out, I had them, and how! Expectations, I mean. I assumed that an agent would have me tell my story. He'd listen, take notes, ask a few questions, and that would be it. Simple. My civic duty, done. See something, say something.

They had me wait in reception for nearly five minutes. Fine. Not a problem.

They brought me to an interview room. One of the walls was entirely glass, and the whole time I was in there, people passed by. Most of them took a long look at me. I sat there for about three minutes by myself. Again, no problem.

Then, Agent Lassrop entered, accompanied by a female agent, Kirchmeyer. Neither of them gave their first names.

Lassrop brought a pad and pen with him. Kirchmeyer came empty handed. He offered me coffee, water, tea? I declined.

We sat on opposite sides of a very plain table. There was nothing else in the room, except for a large, broad-leafed plant in the corner: nothing on the walls, no furniture other than the table and four chairs. On the table was a microphone, but it wasn't turned on, and they didn't bother to turn it on.

Lassrop took my contact information, and asked me to tell my story. He compared it to the message I'd left — he had a printed transcript of my call.

I tried to be brief. It was a little daunting, the telling, because the two of them simply sat there, poker-faced. They didn't ask questions, take notes, or react in any way.

When I finished, Lassrop scratched his head. "Merope. Unusual name." I shrugged. "Tell me, Merope, if you switched last Friday — it was Friday, right? So that's—" he counted on his fingers "—four days. Why did you wait four days to report this?"

"In all fairness," Kirchmeyer put in, "it's only two business days. And one of those days, well, she was just switched, right? So, there's some shock, confusion, right? We could say it's only one business day."

I immediately twigged the good cop/bad cop routine. Still, I smiled at her response.

"Actually, I reported this on Saturday, at the processing center."

"Ah, right, the processing center. The one up north on I-60?"

"Correct. They said they would 'pass it up the chain'."

"Did you hear that, Kirchmeyer? They told her that they'd pass it up the chain. Do you think that we're up that chain? You and me?" Her eyebrows went up, but she didn't reply.

"They told me they have a special channel for observations like these."

He smiled a smarmy, self-pleased smile. "Hmm. A chain. A channel. Did you hear anything from a chain or a channel, Agent Kirchmeyer? Maybe I forgot to check our chains and channels this morning."

"No. I didn't hear anything," she replied. "Maybe I'm not on that chain."

"Or in that channel." He shrugged.

My indignation rose. I could feel my face turn red. They wanted to mock me, did they? Okay. Maybe it was part of their interrogation technique. A friend who worked in security once told me, If you get a person angry, they're more likely to tell you the truth. Okay. I took a breath and tried to keep a lid on my anger. I told them, "They interviewed me at the processing center on Saturday morning, a little after nine o'clock. A guy named Matt. He recorded the interview. You can listen to the tape."

"We could. We could do that," he agreed, "if there *was* such a recording, but there isn't. Not only is there no recording, there's no record of your ever visiting that processing center at all." He cocked one eyebrow at me. Gotcha!

I felt my face go white. It's that fucker, Stan, I told myself.

"Oh, really!" I exclaimed. There **had*** to be a way for me to prove that I'd been there. "Hang on, hang on, give me a minute." I stopped to think. "I have a lanyard at home. They gave it to me at the processing center. They assigned me a number. You can check that. I mean, check the number."

Kirchmeyer glanced at Lassrop. Lassrop's eyes narrowed.

"Also," I continued, "There's the daisy chain. The people who deal with the Switcher, they keep track of who got switched into whom."

"Hear that, Kirchmeyer? Who... whom. Somebody knows their English grammar."

"Each person who's switched, is in the body of the person the Switcher met before them, and they know the name of the person the switcher met after them. It's a linked list; it can't be broken or changed. I'm in Merope Goddard's body; she came before me. The person who comes after me is Anson Charpont, because that's who I am, inside. He'll tell you the same thing. He's in Anson's body, my body, because I came before him. And he saw the Switcher run off in *his* body, so he knows who came after him."

My explanation was too complicated and too logical for Lassrop to easily scoff at. I took advantage of his being on the back foot for a moment and pressed on.

I told the two of them: "I don't care what you think about me, or what you think about what I saw. I have a civic duty to tell you. And now that I told you, I want to leave. And if there is a God above us, hopefully we will never meet again."

That was a bit more honesty than either of them was ready to hear, but they still had a few cards up their sleeves.

"Here's the thing, Merope," Agent Kirchmeyer said. "If we take what you said at face value, what do we have? Something about cylinders. We don't know what these cylinders are. Frankly, they sound like rolls of money. Which, of course, is nice for him, but not really remarkable, if you know anything about the Switcher. On top of that, the area of Harmish that you mentioned is full of businesses of every kind. You know that: there are towers full of offices, laboratories... and I don't know what."

She tapped the table, tap tap tap. "The thing is, none of those businesses reported a loss of any kind. No theft of material, no theft of intellectual property, no theft of little metal cylinders. And so, you see... if all we have is your story — and for the sake of argument, let's say that everything you said is literally and completely true — What do we do with it? Where do we go with it? Without a victim, how can we investigate a crime. Do you follow me?"

I felt lost for a moment, as though the rug had been pulled from under me. But then I remembered...

"I have the USB drive," I told them.

"Great!" Kirchmeyer replied with a smile. "Let's see it."

Crap. "I came here..." I hestitated. I sighed. "I came here on the spur of the moment," I told her. "I left the USB drive at home."

"But you said that you didn't see any copyright notices, or company name on the drive itself, am I right?"

"Yes," I said, deflating.

"Or in the files on that drive?"

"No," I agree. My head bent down, looking at the table. They let me sit there in silence, soaking in my unsupportable assertions. They'd gotten to the end with me. They were done with mocking and teasing. They unwrapped my observations and found nothing inside them.

"I can send you the drive," I said without looking up. "And my lanyard from the processing center." Then I lifted my head and looked at each of them in the face. "I was only trying to do my civic duty. I saw something; I said something."

Kirchmeyer reached out her hand and covered mine. I wanted to jerk my arm away, but it would have been a pointless gesture on my part. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there. 'You send it to us," she told me. "We know where to contact you if we have questions."

"Okay," I said, and stood up.

 

---

 

My car was hot from sitting in the sun. Luckily my seats were cloth, so there was only one quick moment of sitting down before the heat subsided. I turned the air on high and drove out of the parking lot to a space on the street under a tree. I was too upset to drive. I kept the windows open until the air conditioner was able to kick in.

"Fuck them!" I shouted, once my windows were closed. It was the only appropriate thing to say. They didn't have to treat me like a... like a what? Is there a word for people who make silly claims so they can talk to law enforcement?

Whatever it was, the FBI didn't need a name for it. They just assumed that I had it: That I was making things up, simply to get their attention.

Do you know what I wanted to say to them? I was so angry. What I wanted to ask them, was: What about J. Edgar Hoover? Wow, talk about somebody with problems! That man, the one who founded the FBI, he was one hot mess, and yet these agents had the nerve to act like there was something wrong with me?

 

---

 

Eventually I calmed down enough to feel hungry. I asked my phone for "restaurants near me" and the only listing anywhere nearby was a place called The Peckish Perch. It was a ten-minute drive, to the town of Devall, which is only known for the Devall Small Mall.

The Small Mall features a bowling alley, a Department of Motor Vehicles office, and a few oddly-assorted stores. It's anchor was a large Gimbrels department store — the last remnant of a once-booming national chain.

Naturally, the Peckish Perch was nestled into the mall. The restaurant — and the mall in general — were surprisingly busy. I asked how long it would take for them to seat me.

"Right away," the hostess replied. "We have a lot of ones and twos over there — see?" She pointed, in case I missed it.

"Okay, uh, but one question: Is this a fish restaurant?"

She gave me a strange look. "No, of course not. Why would it be?"

"Well, perch," I replied. "A perch is a type of fish."

She smiled and touched my arm with her fingertips. "No," she informed me, and explained as if she was talking to a somewhat slow child. "A perch is where a bird sits, and when a bird eats, they peck. See? Peckish Perch means that this is a place where you can sit down and eat."

It called itself a restaurant, but really it was nothing more than a fast-food joint with table service. One of my high-school teachers liked to say that fast food tastes good at first, but when you're halfway through, you ask yourself why you're eating it.

I had a "Perch Burger" with fries and a vanilla milkshake, and it fit that description. I stopped exactly halfway through my meal. Stopped dead. How on earth did it manage to taste good at the start? It not only made me feel cruddy inside, it made my skin feel greasy. If I were still Anson, I would have kept going, and eaten it all, in spite of how it made me feel. But I wasn't Anson any more. My metabolism, my tastes, my nutritional needs, were all changed. It was a good change; clearly a salutary change. I pushed the food away and left the restaurant.

Even so, the portion I'd eaten was enough to weigh me down. I took a walk through the mall to try to help me digest. True to its name, the mall wasn't very large. It did include a pharmacy, where I picked up my shaving supplies. After circulating through a quarter of the mall, I wandered into Gimbrels. All of the perfume and cosmetic counters were right there at the store entrance.

I stopped and on impulse, decided to get a makeover. I told the woman that I needed a light office look. "It has to be dirt-simple to put on," I told her. "I'm not very good at this."

She suggested that I make a video on my phone as she worked on my face. She talked the entire time, describing what she was doing, the effect she was aiming for, and so on. It was extremely helpful and reassuring.

I was pretty pleased at the end result. She was pleased that I was pleased. She was about my age, and dressed in a way that looked both professional and comfortable. It was the sort of look I figured I'd be wearing to the office. When she asked me whether there was anything else she could help me with, I immediately responded: "What would you wear to a first date in a bar?"

"Jeans and a nice top," she replied, without a moment's hesitation. "As for shoes, I'd wear flats, but you could really wear whatever you want."

 

---

 

When I got back to Femke's apartment, she wasn't there.

The first thing I did was to sit in the tub and shave my legs. I think I held my breath the entire time, but I was careful enough that I didn't nick or cut myself.

Then I removed all my makeup, took a shower, redid my makeup and fixed my hair. When I say I fixed my hair, it's not as though there was a lot to do. Luckily the old Merope favored a bob, which took a little styling, but not much.

While digging through my duffle bag, I happened on an outfit for the office tomorrow: black flared pants and a sleeveless cream-colored top. I also found some tight jeans and a black one-shoulder top for my date tonight. Remembering what the Gimbrels woman told me, I picked a pair of black flats that went with both outfits.

I'm going to have to start accessorizing, I quickly realized. A nice necklace and a bracelet or wrist watch would have finished off the look nicely.

But then, as I was pushing the duffle bag out of my way, my eye fell on a dress. It was — I want to stay "a little black dress" because that's the stock phrase: the LBD. When I saw it, I wanted to touch it, and once I touched it, I had to pick it up. Whatever material it was made from, it felt like magic under my fingers. It was stretchy, but soft. It wasn't shiny, but it almost seemed to glow.

I had to try it on.

Once I tried it on, I had to wear it.

Once I wore it, the flats I'd chosen simply didn't do it justice. I knelt down and fished around the bottom of the bag, where I found a pair of black strappy heels.

But then, once I put the shoes on, it made me see how awful my toes looked. I mean, I needed a pedicure. The blue nail polish the original Merope had applied a week ago was now chipped and cracked. My fingernails, too. I don't know how I hadn't noticed.

When I asked my phone for "nail salons near me" it showed a place just a block away called "Best Hygenic Nail" — a name that inspired both confidence and doubt at the same time. I clopped on over in my new heels — without calling ahead! But lucky me! they were able to accomodate me right away.

It was, as advertised (and much to my relief), hygenic, and they did a wonderful job of restoring the Ocean Blue favored by the original Merope. I wasn't totally convinced by the color, myself, but didn't feel that now was the time to experiment.

The women at the salon tried to sell me false eyelashes. She pushed me hard. Her colleagues joined in. They were ready and willing to apply them to my eyelids. They showed me a surprising variety of lengths and styles. To tell the truth, I was tempted. Not sorely tempted, but a little tempted. What stopped me? It was the fact that I was already dolled-up. As feminine as I felt, as feminine as I wanted to feel, I was uneasy about going any further. I was wearing black heels — not stilettos, but even so, they were seriously feminine heels. My legs were hairless and smooth to the touch. My dress wasn't exactly short but I felt pretty exposed in the salon chair: my knees were at the same level as the head of the woman painting my toes.

And my face! I could feel the make-up. I was very conscious of it, and was startled each time I'd see my red lips in a mirror. It wasn't uncomfortable, no. In fact, I liked it. I liked it a lot. I felt attractive. I felt like a work of art. I wanted to be seen.

Even so, false eyelashes was a step farther than I was ready to go. I mean, it was all new to me, and it was wonderful. I suppose I could have told myself in for a penny, in for a pound, but I didn't. If I had to put my reticence into words, my problem was this: What I'd done to myself, for myself — shaving my legs, having my face made over (and learning to do it myself), choosing the little black dress and the heels — and getting my nails done! That was all me.

The lashes, it seemed, would have pushed me over into a very different feeling: the feeling that I was wearing a costume. That it was all pretend. I didn't want that. I wanted to be me tonight. The new Merope, as far as I could.

 

---

 

By the time the salon finished with me, it was a quarter to six.

More than three hours until my date.

I returned to Femke's and forced myself to sift through some more files on Stan's USB drive. It was both tedious and interesting at the same time. I didn't learn anything new about old Merope, but going through her records gave me a feeling of solidity, of reality.

I'm glad I didn't let the processing center stick me with a new name. Here, now, if I asked myself Who am I? I had material at hand to help answer that question. If they'd given me a made-up name, that question of Who am I? would have landed in a void. Oddly, or paradoxically, I the more I learned about Merope, the more I felt I was learning about myself. I mean, I *am* Merope, at least in a physical sense. I'm somebody's daughter; maybe somebody's sister or niece. Those are physical facts. Merope paid taxes and has money in the bank. That, in a societal sense, makes her real.

I have relatives. I have objective correlatives. I have roots. I have history. It's a history I can learn.

 

---

 

Opening and sorting the files Stan gave me was a slog, but I fell into it, deeply. I got into the zone, the way I do when I'm writing computer programs. It's a state where the work flows easily, almost effortlessly through me; I'm not aware of time passing or the conditions around me. I forget to eat or drink. Usually the only things that rouse me are external: a person calling my name, my phone ringing, or — as in the present case — the need to use the bathroom.

As I trotted off to the smallest room, the kitchen clock caught my eye. Somehow, the time was 9:25! I had five minutes to meet Wayne downtown!

While sitting on the toilet, I called an Uber. At this point, driving myself would take longer. I'd never find parking anywhere near Olduvai Street, and if I had a few drinks, I wouldn't want to chance driving myself home.

The driver pulled up as I stepped out the front door. I gave the street address of the bar, and we took off.

It occurred to me while I was going through my files that I could take time this Sunday and start reading through Merope's life, one year at a time: starting with her tax return, her bank statements, her credit card statements, and whatever other documents memorialized that year. I'd read through as if I were reading a novel. It would help to steep me in my new life.

I was called out of my reverie by the driver. He was talking to me.

He complimented me on my appearance. I thanked him. He asked me where I was going, exactly.

"I know Olduvai," he told me, "but the street numbers? Not so much. A lot of those stores, they don't put the street numbers on the buildings. So: where are we going?"

Honestly, I was a little distracted, a little anxious. Anxious about being late... in fact, did I have my bag with me? Yes, yes, here it is. Do I have my phone? Yes. My wallet? Some money? Yes and yes.

Also, a large part of my consciousness was still immersed in the Merope files I'd been reading.

So I looked up, almost as though he'd woken me from a sleep, and told him, "The Golden Farting."

He scoffed, disgusted. "Why do you young people have to do that?" he demanded. "It's the Golden **Farthing***. The Golden Farthing. Do you even know what a farthing is?"

The smartass in me wanted to reply that a farthing was a fart-thing, but as amusing as I found it in that moment, I bit my tongue. A quick search in my trivia memory gave me the answer. I replied, "It's a coin. A fraction of a penny, I think."

"Hmmph," he grunted. "There's hope for you yet. And here we are!" He stopped in front of a building with a very active crowd out front. "The Golden Farthing. Have a lovely time."

I climbed out of the car. A couple of young men watched my legs as I exited the vehicle. Damn — I needed to practice that move. No — before practicing, I needed to learn how a woman gets out of a car. Maybe there was a YouTube video I could watch.

The time was 9:35. Not bad. Not on time, but not too badly late.

Looking up, I checked the sign. Of course, it wasn't the Golden Farting. There was never a chance of that. However, it wasn't the Golden Farthing, either. The name of the pub was the Golden Fairling. I had no idea what the name meant, not that it mattered.

As with most businesses on Olduvai, the entrance was set back several yards from the street. About a dozen people lounged on the sidewalk: some of them were smoking or vaping (breathing out huge billows of cloud, like two-legged dragons), others simply chatted with their friends. None of them were waiting to enter; there wasn't a queue. These people were taking a break, coming up for air — or for smoke — whatever the case called for.

I'd never been to the Golden Fairling; never even glanced inside. So I was relieved to see the range of ages of the people gathered out front. A few were clearly north of fifty. Most were somewhere in their thirties or forties. As to people in their twenties? If I was any judge of ages, there were few.

I pushed past the hangers-on, flashed my ID at the bouncer at the door, and entered another world. I imagined I'd quickly scan the room, pick out Wayne, walk over and connect.

Instead I was overwhelmed by the atmosphere.

By "atmosphere" I don't mean by the smell. Sure, it smelled like a bar: the accumulated aroma old burgers and fried food, of spilled beer and ketchup. Not that they didn't clean: the place was hygenic enough. I'm just saying that if you were blindfolded and taken there, with nothing but your nose to guide you, you'd immediately know you were in a bar. If — again, guided only by your nose — if you were asked, Would you eat a meal here? Your nose would reply, Sure. Why not?

What struck me, what knocked me back a half-step, was the darkness. All the furniture — the bar, the shelving behind the bar, the tables and chairs, the hostess' stand and the cashier's desk — all of it was dark walnut. All of it dyed deeper black by cigarette smoke back in the years when smoking indoors was still allowed.

Somehow the air itself seemed darker, like the air at night.

And the sound, too, was overwhelming. The music, which I couldn't recognize, was loud and pounding. I felt it in my chest. A young man approached me and said something. I shook my head and pointed at my ears. He leaned closer and shouted to me, asking if I wanted... something. I couldn't make out what.

When I shrugged, made an apologetic face, and shook my head no, he looked disappointed, but he walked away.

Here, inside, the demographic was quite different than the people I saw outside. The crowd was predominantly young; college age. Tattoos and piercings abounded.

I had to run my eyes over the room three times before I spotted Wayne. He was sitting at the bar, talking to a young man who was very nearly his twin. The two were roughly the same height and build. They had the same open, smiling face, the same full, untamed head of hair. Of course, there were obvious differences between them, but at a glance they were nearly interchangeable.

As I approached them, those differences became more evident. Wayne was a golden boy. If a sculptor sought a model for a statue of Alcibiades, he'd stop looking the moment he met Wayne.

If Wayne was gold, his friend was silver at best. I never found out his name; never met him again. As soon as I put my hand on Wayne's shoulder, his friend nodded in my direction, said something to Wayne that was inaudible to me, and stepped away to dissolve into the crowd.

Wayne turned to face me, and a sunny smile lit up his face. I felt the sun respond inside of me.

He said something that I couldn't hear. The music rendered normal speech impossible. I shouted back. He smiled, not even trying to hear.

The bartender approached. Somehow his voice was able to penetrate the noise: he asked me what I wanted to drink. I pointed at Wayne's beer and he nodded.

I moved my head toward Wayne's, intending to talk in his ear. Instead, he gently took my head with his fingertips, steered my mouth toward his own, and he kissed me.

It was a warm, wet, soul-absorbing kiss. The kind of kiss that teenagers experience: the kind that closes out the world and everyone in it. I rested my hands on his chest, feeling his muscular torso, making my hands feel small. I realized I was on tiptoe while he was sitting down.

We kissed for a long time, it seemed. His hands moved to my shoulders, then down my back. When his hands reached my waist, my hip bones, he pulled me closer to him. His knees closed, holding my thighs. I wrapped my arms around his neck.

I can't tell if anyone noticed us kissing. I'm sure I didn't care whether they did.

When we came up for air, we pressed our foreheads lightly together and gazed into each others' eyes.

He spoke again. In spite of the closeness, I still couldn't hear. I moved my mouth next to his ear.

"It's so LOUD in here!" I said, stating the obvious.

He nodded, moved his lips to my ear and suggested, "Let's finish these beers and take a walk."

I nodded. The beers came in a tall glass, too tall for me to hurry through. By the time I was halfway down, Wayne's glass was empty. He touched my glass and raised his left eyebrow, asking silently if he should finish mine. I nodded.

A few swallows later, my glass was empty as well, and the two of us emerged in the cooler night air.

As we sauntered up the avenue, Wayne told me about his business as a personal trainer. He had a couple of interesting and amusing anecdotes about his clients. After we'd walked slowly hand-in-hand for several blocks, he glanced at me and said, "I've been doing all the talking. Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything. What do you do for a living, for instance?"

"I'm a Cobol programmer."

Wayne chuckled. "Like Mr Charpont."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Exactly like Mr Charpont. I keep telling you, Wayne. I've been switched. I *am* Anson Charpont. I know your family. I used to live next door."

"Oh, right," he responded, clearly not giving me any credence. I don't know why I felt the need to insist on this point with him, but somehow it rankled me that he either didn't get it, or didn't believe it. Maybe he just didn't care, which seemed the worst option of the three.

He abruptly stopped; stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, and looked at me. I'm pretty sure he sensed my irritation, so he placed his hands on my hips, smiled a wary smile, and said, "Can I ask you something, then?"

"Sure."

"If you're Anson Charpont, recently switched, does that make you a virgin?"

"Oh!" I exclaimed. I never expected *that* question. "Well... ah..."

"Have you ever had sex as a woman? That's what I'm asking."

"Well, no."

A heat radiated between us, from him to me and back again. He stood there, looking at me, not caring about the crowd of pedestrians around us. He was fully at ease, as if we were standing alone in a grassy field. I stood there, looking up at him. People milled around us, like a flood -- parting when they encountered us, splitting briefly as they passed us, then fluidly joining back up again, the the way a stream flows and shapes itself around a rock in a stream.

Wayne tugged on his earlobe. He rubbed his chin.

"Do you know what I'm thinking?" he asked.

"I'm pretty sure I do," I replied.

"And yet I don't see you running away," he teased.

"Nope, not running, me."

"I'm going to call an Uber," he warned me, conspiratorially.

I nodded slowly. "Good idea."

"Wow, you're so easy!" he teased, and gave me a playful push on my shoulder.

 

Merope, Maybe : 16 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

When a Lazy Slob takes a good steady job
And he smells from Vitalis and Barbasol...
The guy's only doing it for some doll!
— Frank Loesser, Guys and Dolls [theme song]

---

 

Our Uber glided to a stop next to where we were standing. After giving a mock salute to the driver — who nodded in return — Wayne stepped gallantly down from the curb and put his hand on the door handle. Then he paused so he could look me in the face with a serious expression.

"Listen: we have to behave ourselves in the Uber. No making out or — you know — anything more."

I gaped stupidly. "I wasn't planning—"

He shook his head at my protest, and waved it away with his free hand. "See, *we* rate the drivers, sure. But did you know the drivers rate us passengers, as well? If you're a bad passenger, they're less liable to pick you up. So: model citizens, agreed?" He punctuated his explanation with a wink.

I've never liked winks. I don't know why. But they've always bugged me.

So: serious face, followed by conspiratorial wink. I found it a bit confusing.

In any case, the moment passed too quickly to process; Wayne had the car door open before I could even blink. His admonition was there and gone before I was able to offer any reaction whatsoever. Wayne gestured to me, and watched my legs with great attention as I got into the back seat. Noting his avid gaze, I had a sudden inspiration: I sat down first, knees and ankles touching, then swung my legs, with knees and ankles still together, into the car. Elementary. I'm sure I've seen many women do this — in real life, on TV, and in films. I should have caught on to this move a lot sooner. But it was only just then, in that moment, that it struck me as something I should do as well. Wayne looked mildly disappointed.

On the other hand, he didn't wait for me to shift over — he didn't expect me to. Instead, he closed my door and scurried around to the far side of the car .

At least he was raised well, I told myself. Then again, I already that already. In life as Anson, I was well acquainted with Ross and Pamela (Wayne's parents). They were good people.

And yet, Wayne was still young. He had plenty of mistakes and wild oats to sow — for example, what the two of us were doing right now. Wayne, oddly conscious (for once!) of the potential appearance of impropriety, left a few inches of space between us. He didn't scoot closer to me or drape his arm over my shoulders. In fact, he glanced once or twice at the driver's eyes in the rear view mirror. It made me feel almost as though we were sitting in the high-school principal's office.

I had a sudden suspicion. "Wayne," I whispered, "Have you gotten in trouble with an Uber driver?"

His eyes narrowed, as if I'd caught him out. The expression on his face said, What have you heard?

I persisted: "I mean, did you overdo it in the PDA department?"

"PDA?" he whispered, frowning, puzzled.

"Public Displays of Affection," I explained, laughing quietly at the easy tease.

His response was a soft "Pfft!" He leaned back in his seat, sat up straighter, and took up more space, opening his chest.

In what I guess was meant to be a daring move, he reached over and set his large hand on my left thigh. I caught my breath. The width of his palm covered nearly half my thigh. His fingers and thumb came near to touching the seat beneath me. His grip was warm, as well, and its warmth made me very aware of my posture and breathing. I don't know why, but it did.

None of us spoke. The driver didn't make conversation. Aside from the hand on my thigh, Wayne and I were on best behavior — not that I wanted anything more in that moment. Even so, the silence, the weight and warmth of Wayne's touch, and the fact of being closed in a car that someone else was driving, brought to bear the finality of what I was up to. I'd allowed myself to be swept along, and here I was: swept to a point of no return.

Or was it?

I suppose there were a few emergency brakes I could pull. I could tell the driver, "Stop the car — I need to get out. Yes, right here!" Or I could look Wayne in the eye and say, "I'm sorry, but I can't do this. This was a mistake." Or — maybe the most cowardly and desperate move of all — I could wait until we arrived in front of Wayne's house, and run off to seek refuge next door, with Cloe and Mukti.

My eyes roved around the inside of the car, as if I were a prisoner absurdly looking for a way out.

Sure, I was being melodramatic, but wasn't melodrama appropriate to the moment?

Everything about this moment was stupid. *I* was stupid. The situation was stupid. What I was doing was stupid. Even Wayne bore his share of "stupid" — although it wasn't his fault. Mainly it was me: I was up to something stupid, me.

Ever since the car door closed on me, a song was playing in my head: it was the theme to Guys and Dolls. In a nutshell, the song is about all the crazy, misguided things a man might do if he fell for a woman: things like: get a job, rent a decent apartment, bathe more frequently... I had to think for a moment to remember what Vitalis and Barbasol are, but the message was plain — a man could twist himself into a new shape for the sake of a woman... if he lost his head.

You could infer from the song that, if only he didn't get entangled, a man could live a less complicated life: a more peaceful, less demanding, less hygenic life.

Why that song? What prompted it? My subconscious was being surprisingly clear: I was doing the same thing as the guy in the song. Not that I was getting a job or an apartment or using Barbasol for Wayne's sake... it wasn't literally that. What I'd done, like the "guys" in the song, was that I'd lost myself. I hadn't changed my life... but I was doing things I ordinarily would never do. Not in a thousand years.

I was acting impulsively.

I've never been impulsive. I could count on one hand the times in my life that I've done anything on impulse: most of them happened on the day I met the Switcher. First, I'd eaten that weird, roasted-tea scone. Second, I turned left rather than right at the river. If I hadn't done that, I'd still be Anson.

The third impulsive thing was calling Rowan, rather than the processing center. If I hadn't done that, Femke wouldn't have been assaulted by Stan. We wouldn't have risked jail on account of Stan's "presents." Was there any upside to that impulse?

Well, yes, I had to admit that there some upsides: I had Femke's help. I had a place to stay. Rowan and Javier had my back. And I had the USB drive with all of Merope's records.

Plus one little thing: I got to taste Maude's excellent strawberry/rhubarb pie. It was worth remembering.

And come to think of it... going back further in my life... when I asked Cleo to marry me, *that* was on impulse. I hadn't meant to do it. At least not at that moment. On pure impulse I went ahead and did it.

So how did *that* turn out? Well? Badly?

Probably a combination of both, sometimes both at the same time.

Did I have a good marriage, overall? Was being impulsive a bad thing, in and of itself? I sighed heavily, and louder than I meant to. Wayne cocked his head and gave me a quizzical look.

"This is crazy!" I muttered, then shocked, I put my hand over my mouth. I hadn't meant to say it out loud! I was talking to myself, referring to the mad jumble in my brain, the unreconcilable mess of experiences that I couldn't sum up into a neat, categorical judgment: good or bad, right or wrong, crazy or sane...

And now Wayne was sure to think that *I* was crazy...

His face lit up in surprise, and his eyebrows danced. He glanced at the dashboard, then hunched over me, bringing his face close to my left ear. In a low voice he confided, "Yeah, taking the ring road definitely isn't the best choice. We'll end up coming into my neighborhood from the back, so to speak. But these guys just go wherever the GPS tells them."

I glanced out the window, then back at Wayne. "Uh, I didn't mean..." I began, then gave it up.

"I guess I don't know where I am," I pretended to confess, and gave him a weak smile.

He smiled and gave my hand a squeeze. "We'll be there in five minutes," he whispered.

"Great," I breathed, dreading and wanting it in the same moment.

Although he'd moved his hand to cover mine, I could still feel his handprint on my thigh. I could probably take a pen and trace the outline of his hand from the residual warmth. Somehow, that thought — the mental image of tracing his contact on my skin — made me feel even more an idiot than I did already.

Anxious, I wet my lips with my tongue and set my hand on top of his. I anteed up. He smiled at that.

And then we arrived at his house.

 

---

 

Wayne and I stood in the darkened street, watching until the Uber faded from view and a suburban silence descended over us. His house stood directly in front of me, across a well-kept lawn. My old house (Anson's house) was visible mostly as a shadow in the darkness.

I let out a shaky, uncertain breath. "So quiet!" I observed in a hushed voice, afraid of breaking the silence. "Not even crickets." Wayne didn't answer. Instead, he raised his eyes and scanned the houses around us. I realized later that he was checking the windows; looking for lights, watchers, silhouettes of vigilant neighbors... Nosy Parkers who might spot us and tell Wayne's mom and dad.

At the time he looked to me like a hunter, surveying the terrain. I couldn't help it: physically, I was in a kind of awe of him. I was Jane to his Tarzan. If he'd picked me up, tossed me over his shoulder and run off with me, I'd be all for it. My mouth actually watered at the thought. I had to swallow twice.

Neither of us had moved from the spots where we descended from the car: the width of the absent Uber still separated us. I held my breath, acutely aware of my heart beating. The car had left me in the middle of the road in the semi-darkness; Wayne stood closer to the curb. I felt exposed, almost naked, perched on my high heels, wearing my little dress — that suddenly seemed quasi-immaterial, nothing more than a little scrap of fabric.

I hasten to say that I wasn't naked. I only *felt* that way: vulnerable, foolish... alone, small, defenseless.

"Don't move," Wayne cautioned in a low voice, and in a few steps he stood in front of me. He put his hands on my upper arms and squeezed me, the way you'd squeeze a loaf of bread, and my subconscious tossed up the word perfunctory. I'm sure that the part of me that used the word knew perfectly well what it meant, but the part of me that stood in the street — gaping, big-eyed, impelled by desire — could only silently repeat the sounds, the syllables: perfunctory? It didn't register. The doubt in me wanted desperately to pump the brakes, but by this point I hardly knew where they were, let alone reach them.

"Give me your shoes," Wayne whispered. "Your heels will go click-clack and wake up the neighborhood."

"It's still early," I whispered back. "It must be ten-thirty or thereabouts. And why are we whispering? We're not in a library." I gave a little smile and teased, "Plus, the Uber's gone."

He frowned, not getting the joke, and took a deep breath before explaining. "Look: I still live with my parents—"

"I know, Wayne," I interrupted. "I know that." I felt more than a little irritated. How many times did I have to tell him that I used to live next door? That I'd watched him grow up? At the very least, did he not remember that he'd already told me he lived with his folks when his little dog licked me?

He seemed put out by my interruption, so he said, "Do you know what's great about older women? They know what they want."

I frowned at his non sequitur. My brain didn't seem up to the task tonight. I couldn't even manage an indignant what? I guess he meant to remind me why we were here; that I wanted it, that he hadn't dragged me along. At the very least he meant to throw me off a bit. While I waited for the gears in my brain to turn, Wayne pressed on. "The point is, I have to sneak you into the house, understand? There's no way you can sneak around when you're wearing heels."

I took a look at his driveway. "Do you expect me to walk barefoot up—"

"I'll carry you," he told me, cutting the negotiation short.

Carry me? That sounded like a great option to me.

I slipped out of my shoes and handed them to him. He hooked the heel straps over his left pinky, where they dangled like baubles on a charm bracelet. I placed my hand on his shoulder and jumped up, into his arms. He caught me neatly and held me close. Then he flew up the driveway: quickly, silently, without no trace of effort whatsoever. It left me breathless. His hold on me was so firm, I didn't bounce in his arms. He didn't seem conscious of my weight. He didn't grunt or strain, not even slightly. He moved fast, but he didn't breathe hard. When he set me down next to a window at the rear of the house, he didn't need to catch his breath. He seemed totally unfazed by the effort — which was rather exciting in itself. In fact, he looked ready to pick me up and run another mile, just for the fun of it.

I felt like a silly goose, but his muscular power gave me a physical thrill.

"Wait here," he commanded, and he looked me up and down, as if evaluating something. He glanced at my back. Then he reached out, took my bag from me, and ran back around the house the way we came.

 

---

 

If I didn't feel foolish before, I felt ridiculous now. I mean, less than a week ago I was a portly retiree. Before encountering the Switcher, the biggest events in my day were my new bucket hat, and a weird new scone. Now I was a thirty-something female wearing a little black dress, standing barefoot in the wet grass behind a surburban house, waiting for a twenty-something fitness buff to open his window and let me inside.

Wayne didn't leave me waiting for long. When he appeared at the window, he paused before opening it, to put his finger to his lips. Yes, okay: he wanted to remind me. When he continued to stand there looking at me, not opening the window I made impatient motions with my hands, miming the raising of the sash. He frowned with pursed lips. He huffed. Then he put his finger to his lips three times quickly, as an imperative. I raised my eyebrows. Seriously? But when he didn't move, I nodded vigorously, making the same shh gesture. Then and only then did he begin to open the window.

With agonizing slowness he raised the sash, millimeter by millimeter. His intent was clear: he was trying to minimize the groans and creaks the window gave out, and it released those sounds liberally and loudly. From the noise, you'd imagine an elderly asthmatic with a bad back was struggling to get out of bed. I can't imagine that anyone in the house could possibly remain asleep at the concert of screeches and squeals. They'd have to be deaf or under the influence of a potent narcotic.

By now, the sham of my "indecision" was clear. If I could stand here, watching Wayne's face as he labored manfully but uselessly to silently raise that wailing window, I couldn't pretend that I was anything but all-in. Fine: I was here for the sex. I was here for his muscles. I didn't have a single ounce of doubt, not one tiny iota. My hesitation and fluttering were nothing but a pretence, a fig-leaf, a sop for my conscience.

When at last the window sash let out its final trumpet, I stepped up to the window and set my hands on the sill. I looked down for a toehold. I was more than ready to climb inside.

"Wait a minute," Wayne whispered, holding up his palm. His face assumed a wolf-like, hungry aspect. "That's a really lovely dress."

"Um, thanks," I replied, puzzled.

"You don't want it to get dirty, climbing in the window. That would be a shame, wouldn't it?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess." I looked at the opening; touched the sill. It's true. It was a little dirty. "What did you have in mind?"

"Why don't you take your dress off, and hand it to me. That way it will stay nice and clean."

I regarded him for a minute. He waited. Then he said, "You know you have to get naked at some point."

"Okay," I conceded. I turned my back and Wayne unzipped me. I slipped out of the dress — which honestly was a lovely dress; it felt amazing as it slid off my body — then I folded it in half and carefully handed it to him.

Now dressed in nothing my bra and panties, I put my hands on the sill again, and looked for a toehold.

"Wait," Wayne stopped me again. I scoffed. "Seriously?" I asked him. He shushed me and shrugged, smiling.

"In for a penny," he offered.

"Fine!" I muttered, and slipped out of my undergarments. When I passed those inside, he had me turn my shoulder toward the window and reached out to take me. "Don't make any sudden moves," he cautioned, "or you'll throw my back into next week."

At his coaching, I rested my head on his left arm while he lifted my knees with his right. Once my head passed inside, he shifted both hands under my butt and glided the rest of me inside.

"It's a tricky move," he confessed. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead using the back of his hand.

I was about to ask how the effort compared to running up the driveway with me in his arms, but he planted a sudden and dramatic kiss — I think he wanted to kiss me, sure, but I'm pretty sure he wanted to forestall any talk.

We didn't kiss for long, but it left me out of breath.

Panting, out of breath, I stood on tiptoe and reached up to touch his upper arms, feeling his muscles with my fingertips.

Then, in spite of my longing, I noticed the way my dress lay in a crumpled bundle on his bed. Admittedly, I hadn't exactly folded it, but I didn't ball it up like that! I picked it up, shook out the wrinkles, and asked, "Where can I hang this?"

"Just leave it on the bed," he replied in a distracted tone, as if my dress didn't matter. "Anyway, we can't stay in here — my parents will hear everything."

Then, absurdly, he reached for the window.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded.

"Closing the window," he answered. He frowned and shrugged. "Isn't it obvious?"

"If you didn't already wake your parents when you opened that thing, for sure you're going to wake them when you close it."

He shook his head as if I'd said the most errant nonsense, and in one swift movement he pushed the window shut. It closed with a quick, soft squeak.

"Are you kidding?" I exclaimed in a soft voice. "Why didn't you sweep it open that way?"

"You ask a lot of questions," he countered defensively. "It only makes noise when it's going up. If you go fast, it's worse. My dad says it's like the brass section is slaughtering a hog." He shrugged. "Whatever. Come on now, follow me."

With that, he pushed me ahead of him, out the door of his bedroom, into the hallway. He kept his hands on my shoulders, and steered me this way and that. I'd been inside the house before, but not so much in the back of the house, where the bedrooms are. And the fact that I was completely bare, without a stitch of clothes, frightened and excited me, but paradoxically I found it confused me. The possibility of discovery, of being caught naked by Wayne's parents, lurked around every corner — and we seemed to be turning a lot of corners.

I want to say At last we arrived in the kitchen, but it was only a matter of moments. I blinked two or three times, utterly confused. Did he want to have sex on the kitchen island? Mentally I worked out that if I lay on the counter, Wayne would need a step-stool, or he'd come up short—

—but of course, silly me — that wasn't the idea at all.

Wayne soundlessly opened the door to the basement. "There's a rec room downstairs," he whispered. "It's nice, and it's the perfect place."

My mouth fell open. I meant to ask, Can I bring my clothes along? but he didn't give me a chance. He spun me around and gently guided me to the top of the stairs. Then, suddenly, he said, "Stop."

"What?" I asked, but I got my answer immediately. He slid his hands over my derriere, softly moaning in satisfaction. "I couldn't resist any longer," he cooed in my ear. "I had to touch you." Then his hands slid up my sides and made their way to my breasts, which he gently but thoroughly fondled.

I have to say, I liked it. I wanted it. I enjoyed it. I could feel his excitement pressing against my backside, but when his hands slid down south of my belly button, I grabbed his hands and said, "Wait — let's get downstairs," and without waiting for his pushing, prodding, or guiding, I quickly and quietly descended the stairs.

I won't give you the blow-by-blow. I'm sure you can imagine. A lot of my excitement and arousal — and pretty much every ooh! — was due to it being my first experience of sex as a woman. Yeah, and a lot of it was due to Wayne's youth, stamina, and musculature. He certainly delivered, so I shouldn't complain, but while the sensations were powerful and sustained, and though I hit heights of pleasure I didn't know were even possible — and God, if I had circuit breakers in my brain, they would all need to be replaced after that night.

But even so, one part of me found itself sort of standing to the side and watching, and that part couldn't help but notice that for Wayne it seemed to be a purely physical act.

Which is not to say that he wasn't attentive and considerate. He most definitely was. He was also kind and sensitive.

Still, there was a point when he was fully invested in his labors — and yes, it felt good; it felt very very good — but he was in such deep physical concentration, that I very nearly wanted to ask him, "Hey, Wayne — what's my name?"

Of course, I didn't. I wouldn't. I couldn't be that unkind.

But seriously, in that moment, I could have been anyone, any woman who happened to be lying underneath him. I wondered at one point whether he was being careful to not say my name, in case he got it wrong.

Okay: I'll admit I'm nitpicking. But there is one moment I need to mention. It was absolutely the most significant moment. We were lying on an uncomfortable narrow couch. Wayne was on top of me, going at it, full bore. I'm not sure how to explain this, but until that moment, I hadn't considered what we were doing — or better, the *implications* of what we were doing. In my mind, to this point, it was all about pleasure, excitement, about this being my very first time... Until I kind of woke up from my passive state to realize that his breathing and movements had changed — like music, when it shifts to a deeper, more serious key. There was no mistaking what the key change signalled: it abruptly became irresistably obvious that he was about to climax... inside of me — without protection.

My entire body stiffened at once. The realization, the implications, the possibility of a truly life-altering event, exploded in my brain with a piercing, blindingly white light. The shock of my sudden awakening showed on my face and Wayne, true to form, completely misinterpreted it.

"Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! You like that, don't you. You do, you do. Oh, yeah, you love it. You love it. Here we go— uh!"

And then, paradoxically, I climaxed with him — a happenstance that immensely pleased him. It was a long, intense, electrical explosion that didn't just go bang! and stop. No, it grew to an intensity that rocked us both, and then unexpectedly grew and didn't stop. Then, thinking/feeling it was over, I relaxed. My body let go, and in that slackness another climax hit in a second, even stronger wave. My mind, overwhelmed, went blank. I don't mean that I lost consciousness — not at all. But the level of pleasure was so high, so global, that I was pushed beyond words, beyond analysis, beyond any articulation.

I lay there, spent, like a rag doll. If I had any energy left in, I'd be trembling and shaking, but I didn't. Like I said, I was spent. And shocked.

Wayne lay atop me panting, catching his breath, coming down, cooling off, kissing me over and over.

I wanted nothing more in that moment than to climb out from underneath him and go wash myself. I wanted to find a trampoline where I could jump stiff-legged, like I'd seen Queen Victoria do in a limited TV series, in hopes of shaking out a pregnancy, of keeping it from taking hold.

But I didn't. I doubt that the jumping would work, although it would probably make me feel a little better — at least I'd have tried something! But... the real reason I didn't? I didn't want to seem rude or ungrateful. So, instead, I waited. While I waited, patting his back and ruffling his hair from time to time, his breating slowed. Then his breathing deepened, and next — he fell asleep! He fell asleep on top of me!

He was too big and heavy for me to push off. I couldn't slide out from underneath him because I was blocked: Directly above my head an arm of the couch stole all my wiggle room. I was trapped. Luckily, I had no trouble breathing. Go figure.

What to do? I felt sure he'd shift or roll off at some point, although rolling off would mean falling on the floor. Falling on the floor might wake his parents.

So I waited. At least I didn't need to use the bathroom.

At some point, I too fell asleep.

 

---

 

I woke to find myself still trapped by Wayne's dense and muscular body. Apparently he hadn't moved or changed position all night long. It was still dark outside, and my alarm hadn't gone off yet. I had it set for 6:30, to give myself plenty of time to get ready for my first day on the job. No need for concern there, yet. On the other hand, my right foot had fallen asleep, and I needed to use the bathroom. "Wayne?" I softly called, but he kept right on sleeping, his breath deep and even. I poked and prodded him. I called his name, I hissed his name, but nothing would rouse him. I tugged his hair and twisted his ear. No joy.

At last I decided there was nothing for it but to roll him off me — even if it meant his landing heavily on the floor. But how to do it? My legs were under his legs. Only my arms were free, but I couldn't get any leverage there, either. I wiggled and twisted every part of my body. It didn't help me escape, and it had the unfortunate collateral effect of arousing Wayne in his sleep. I quit my wiggling and lay still, waiting for his tumescence to subside.

All I could do was wait. At some point my wake-up alarm would sound, and hopefully Wayne would stir.

I waited and waited. I desperately needed to pee. I began to groan and gasp with the effort of holding it in. I considered just lettting it go, and peeing on Wayne's parents' sectional. It was leather; I should be able to wipe it up and clean it off...

When will my alarm go off? I cried out silently to myself.

Then it hit me: my phone was upstairs, in my bag, in Wayne's bedroom. Shit. I had to get up there before it went off.

"Wayne! Wayne! Wayne!" I croaked hoarsely. I needed to wake him without waking the rest of the house. While I quietly barked his name, I tickled his armpits and ribs.

"Wah, wha, huh?" he grunted. "Wass happenin'?" While he mumbled incoherently, he managed to make enough space beneath him for me to execute a desperate maneuver. With one hand on the couch's arm, and the other on gripping the couch's base, I tugged and pushed with all my might, and in one smooth slip I was able to slide my body to freedom. Once I escaped from under him, he collapsed back onto the couch and fell right back asleep, as if nothing had happened.

For a moment I lay on the floor, soaked by our combined perspiration. As I gathered my wits, his hand descended and very nearly closed around my leg. I scooted backwards on butt until I was safely out of reach.

My right foot was still asleep. I had no feeling in that foot. Was it unhealthy for it to be in that state for so long? I pinched and shook the foot. It was warm, but it was dead to all feeling. I could have stuck a pin anywhere from my ankle on down and not felt a thing. It felt as though I was touching someone else's foot, not my own.

I worked on it for a bit, massaging, shaking, rubbing. No change. And I still needed to use the bathroom.

I got to my feet and nearly fell right back down, but I caught myself, leaning on the couch. It was a weird sensation: it was like having a block of wood at the end of my leg.

I couldn't wait for the situation to change. Clutching one thing and another as I nobbled my way around that basement rec room.

Behind the bar I found a half bath. If you're not familiar with the term, it means a little room with a toilet and a sink. This particular one was also outfitted with a old, crusty hand towel, bent permanently into its draped position. I didn't touch it. I was afraid to.

But in that little room, in that basement space, I sat down and enjoyed the most glorious, pent-up wee I've ever had. It was absolutely true to the phrase "relieving oneself." Oh, lord, was I relieved.

Next came my Mission: Impossible. I had to sneak upstairs and retrieve my clothes and belongings before my alarm went off. How much time did I have? There was no away of knowing.

So: up the stairs, no problem. Nary a squeak. Into the kitchen, no problem. The door opened smoothly and quietly. The clock on the stove read 6:27. Shit! But then again, the clock on the microwave read 4:35.

Next, how to find Wayne's room? I remembered that we'd left the door open, so that was a major clue. As I pictured last night in my memory, it seemed that all the other doors in that hallway were shut. Shouldn't be hard to find, then.

In fact, it wasn't hard at all. After two quick two turns, I found myself in the same hall, and the same door left open. I padded inside. Wayne's bedroom. No doubt. There was my dress on the bed, my underwear on the desk, my shoes on the floor, but where was my bag?

Naturally, it was exactly 6:30 when I asked myself that question, and my phone began to chime: a silly, ding-a-ling-ding-dong melody meant to softly wake me. But where was the damn thing? At first frantic, I scanned the room, looking everywhere (or so I thought), but finding nothing. Then, calmly, I stood and listened, turning slowly until I realized...

There! My little backpack sat on a shelf, high up on the wall. Why did Wayne put it all the way up there?

I snatched it down, fumbled with the flap, fished out the phone, and killed the alarm. Whew. Was my mission successful? At that moment it seemed so: I hadn't heard a sound from the rest of the house. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

6:30, and all is well.

Then I turned, and there in the doorway stood Ross, Wayne's father, his mouth hanging open.

I, for my part, stood in the center of Wayne's bedroom, as naked as a person could be. I held my phone in both hands in front of my chest, but the sight of him so startled me that I dropped my phone to the floor. It landed with a fairly quiet bounce on the rug, but in any case, Ross had already seen and could now see everything there was to see. I had no secrets from him, at least anatomically speaking. I gaped at him, frozen, voiceless, with no idea of what to say or do. I didn't cover my breasts and privates; it didn't occur to me, and would have been pointless anyway.

Ross was slightly less surprised than me: after all, he'd been able to study my backside as I searched for my phone and fished it out of my bag. He held up both hands, in a gesture of surrender or harmlessness, and he backed away, out of sight.

I retrieved my phone, dropped it into my bag, and gathered up my clothes. Before I left the room, I checked three times that I had everything: dress, bag, shoes, underwear (both pieces!). Dress, bag, shoes, underwear. Then I scurried back downstairs.

The reason I didn't immediately dress myself was this: Although by now it had dried, when I first slid out from under Wayne, I was drenched in sweat - both his and mine. I couldn't bring myself to put my clothes — especially that beautiful dress — over my skin in that state.

But of course, I couldn't face using that crusty old hand towel, so I rummaged around the rec room until I found a clean bar towel and three tea towels. With those and what remained of an ancient bar of hotel-size soap, I managed to give myself something like a sponge bath. I did the best I could.

After I dressed, I regarded Wayne. He was still down for the count. I shook him. I called his name. I pinched his ear. Nothing. I considered giving his ass a good hard slap, but knew that they'd hear it upstairs. I thought about leaving a note, but didn't. I figured he didn't need one.

And then—!

Next to the bar, there was a door. A metal door, without a window. With a little effort, I tugged it open and found myself outside! And if that didn't beat all, the door opened — and shut — with hardly a sound.

Oh, Wayne.

Though I was dressed, I hadn't put my shoes on yet. I didn't want to clip-clop down the driveway. I made my way barefoot through the grass down to the road. I wiped my soles with the bar towel (which I'd brought along for just that reason), and slipped my shoes on. Then I clip-clopped away from Wayne's house until I was stood in front of my old house. Hopefully no one would see me.

I pulled out my phone and was about to open the Uber app. But then... a car came rolling down Wayne's driveway. Ross, Wayne's father, my old neighbor, was at the wheel.

He pulled up next to me, rolled down the window, and asked, "Would you like a ride somewhere... Anson?"

 

Merope, Maybe : 17 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

---

"You're dressed to kill, and guess who's dying?"
— Brian Ferry, Dance Away

---

 

Ross pulled up next to me, rolled down the window, and asked, "Would you like a ride somewhere... Anson?"

My first thought was: It's only Thursday morning.

Thursday morning! Not even a week since I encountered the Switcher! Almost a week... nearly a week. And in that almost-a-week, so many emotions, so many new experiences. So much that was new, so much to get used to... a whole new person to be.

But honestly, as interesting and amazing as my experiences have been, it was beginning to get a little tiresome. Could I just go through ONE DAY without experiencing something new? Without having to sift through an avalanche of conflicting, confusing feelings? Without having to figure out how to respond, what to do and what to say?

So, Thursday... Sure, Thursday! Why should today be any different? Today, like every other day this week, I was astonished. Unprepared. Beset by a cascade, a kaleidoscope of feelings and emotions — no, I was beset by cascading kaleidoscopes of feelings, emotions, reactions, imprecations, reservations...

What I wanted to do was to simply and politely tell Ross, Could you just fuck the hell off right now? Could we sort this out a week from now? A month from now? A year from now? How about NEVER? Would that work for you? Whatever on earth this is, could you cut me a little slack? Just for today, my dear old ex-next-door-neighbor?

Yeah — unfortunately, though, quite unfortunately — even though today was the only the sixth day of the rest of my life, for Ross it was only Thursday: the day after yesterday, the day before tomorrow. Just another day. And as Jesus put it, "Sufficient unto the day are the problems thereof."

For Ross, I was one of the "problems thereof" and today was sufficient for dealing with me and the horse I rode in on.

Anyway, as the fellow told me at the processing center, being switched wasn't a get out of jail free card. I didn't have an I've Been Switched! certificate to wave in Ross' face.

But most of all, the thing that decided my next move was a feeling. There, amidst all the feelings I felt as I stood there in the street, gaping like an idiot, the feeling that stood out the most was the feeling that I'd been caught.

Caught, yes. Maybe I'd been caught doing something wrong. Maybe. Arguably? At least it wasn't something I could be arrested for. Wayne was an adult. His level of maturity was another question, but as far as age, in the eyes of the law, Wayne had both feet firmly planted in his majority. He was an adult, whether he behaved like one or no.

And yet, Ross caught me. He caught me out, literally: I was out there, out on the street.

And sure, I felt guilty. Or maybe not guilty, exactly. Maybe I just felt stupid, and guilty was the next closest feeling.

So when Ross said, "Don't just stand there. Get in the car!" I opened the passenger door and climbed in.

I didn't want to seem rude.

After sneaking into the man's house at night and — in his eyes, maybe — after grabbing his son by the hormones, and having my way with him... I didn't want to seem ill-mannered.

So I got in the car.

"I thought you'd be grateful," Ross told me. "I'm sparing you your walk of shame."

"At least part of it," I muttered.

He ignored what I said — or maybe he just didn't hear. He asked me where I was going, and when I told him Teteree, he commented, "Fancy!" and steered the car in that direction.

And then... I waited for the next question. I expected Ross to ask me Why Teteree? or how I'd landed there, or who was I staying with? A friend, maybe a male friend? But he didn't seem to want to know any of that.

Instead, while I sat there expectant, he turned for a moment to look at me, and I felt the most curious thing: It was as though I could see an app, a filter, activate in his mind's eye. It was a filter that subtracted all my clothes and let Ross see me utterly naked.

I was sure that's what developed in his head. It wasn't as though he made any effort to undress me in his imagination, though; it was purely, totally automatic. And I felt it. I wanted to cover myself, but it would have done no good. He had a perfectly accurate 3D map of my naked body, uploaded into his memory while he stood in the doorway of Wayne's bedroom, watching me scurry around searching for my telephone.

Looking to change the subject — or to find a subject — I asked him, "How did you know who I am?"

He laughed. "I am your neighbor, you know." He smiled, turning his eyes back to the road ahead. "Or I was. I saw you walking the other day with Mukti."

"By the way—" he interrupted himself— "Do you mind if I call him Mukti?"

"No, it's fine. It'll be less confusing."

"And you're going by... Merope now?"

"Yes, I'm Merope," I replied.

"Merope. Yes... well... you were wearing those short shorts..." he grinned and gave me a look. "I had to find out the name that went along with those legs—" he shot me another clothes-removing look— "So I called Anson — or I thought I was calling Anson — and I asked him the age-old question: Who was that lady I saw you with? and he replied, That was no lady — that was Anson Charpont!" He followed his narration with a throaty chuckle.

"Huh," I grunted, and shifted in my seat, uselessly tugging the hem of my dress down toward my knees.

"I had my doubts, of course, but Pamela spoke with Cleo later... in any case, to say I was surprised is an understatement. I thought I couldn't be MORE surprised until I saw you this morning... hunting for your phone in your birthday suit."

He flashed me another smile. "Or should I say your second birthday suit?" He paused and drew a deep breath. "In any case, you were naked. Very naked. You couldn't have been more naked." I could see from the expression on his face that the scene was replaying in his mind's eye.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Sorry."

"Oh, don't be sorry! Please don't be sorry. You've really made my day. Or my week? Or month?"

"Um," I replied, feeling uncomfortable. Where was Ross going with this? Was he hoping to follow his son into my secret garden? Or what?

"So," on a sudden inspiration I tossed out a tangent: "Does Pamela know?"

"Oh, of course she does." He grinned to himself. "Do you know what's funny? She knows... she knew... Mukti. She actually took yoga classes from him when he taught at her health club. She said he's one of the best teachers, and she's looking forward to when he starts teaching again."

"And you—" Ross went on. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going back to my old job," I told him. "Programming. In fact, today's my first day back."

"Hmmph," he said. "That isn't what I meant, though. I meant, are you going to be sleeping around? Preying on susceptible young men? Or just men in general?"

My mouth went dry. For a moment I didn't know what to say. Words didn't come. But then I found myself with exactly the right reply:

"Ross, would you let me out here? Right up here? Thanks." Right here, as it happens, was nowhere in particular. Just a suburban corner. "I can call an Uber."

My request caught him up short. He realized that he'd gone too far.

"Wait, no," he temporized. "Hold on: I'm sorry. I didn't mean— it's just that..." He paused to find a good starting point.

"Okay, look: I apologize. I didn't— I wasn't— I mean, I guess this whole thing has been confusing for you. Your whole life has gone topsy-turvy, hasn't it."

"Well, yeah."

"And then, to end up female on top of all of the rest of it... that's got to add confusion on top of confusion, doesn't it."

"Ah..." I almost felt like explaining... I almost caught myself talking about hormones, pheromones, about how I was never wild when I was Anson... but his phrase confusion on top of confusion struck me the wrong way, so I kept my explanations to myself.

Ross didn't notice. He was too busy NOT stopping; he continued to drive, as though I hadn't asked to be let out.

"Actually, I was curious about something. I didn't feel that I could ask Cleo or Mukti, but if you don't mind my asking you: your house, your car, your bank account... all your assets... what happens to them?"

"Mukti is Anson now," I replied. "They all belong to him."

"Hmmph." After a pause: "And does that mean that Mukti is *married* to Cleo? If not in fact, at least... legally?"

I gave him an irritated look, that he missed entirely. "By in fact, do you mean, have they had sex?"

We stopped for a red light. Ross took advantage of the moment to give me a lofty, supercilious look. "I wouldn't be too quick to throw stones in that particular arena, if I were you."

"I'm not throwing stones," I retorted. "I'm just asking what you meant." He opened his mouth to answer, but I cut him off. "Legally they are married. Mukti is Anson Charpont, for all intents and purposes. Whatever that means between him and Cleo is none of my business."

"That's very... open minded of you, I'm sure," Ross commented.

We drove in silence for a bit. I studied Ross' face, trying to understand what he wanted. I mean, not what he wanted from me, but what he wanted from the situation, from the conversation. Was he upset? Was he amused? Was he curious? I couldn't read him.

Finally, to break the silence, I offered, "About last night—"

Ross cut me off. "Let's make one thing clear: I don't want to talk about my son."

HIs son? "Okay," I ventured. "But if it's any consolation, I feel like an idiot."

He gave me a few seconds of incredulous stare, his eyebrows raised. "I don't need consolation," he replied. "I mean, you're the adult in that equation. What I need, what I hope, is that you'll behave like one."

I didn't know what to make of that.

I tried to put myself in Ross' shoes, but couldn't make the psychological adjustment. I, too had a son: Herman. But Herman had never snuck anyone into our house, young or old, male or female. Or, at least, if he had, Cleo and I were never aware of it...

Ross sighed. "So, what are your plans for today?"

"It's my first day of work at my old job," I replied. "I told you."

"Oh, right. Forgot."

"What about you?"

"I work remotely now, and my first meeting isn't until ten. So I have some latitude."

We were getting closer to Teteree. "What will you tell Pamela, if she asks you where you've been?" I ventured.

"I'll tell her the truth," he said.

"Even about seeing me naked?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Is she ever jealous?"

"I've never given her reason to be."

Despite his answers, I couldn't help but wonder whether he was going to proposition me, or make a move.

And did "making a move" imply doing something physical? If so, what would he do? I've never "made a move," so I didn't know what was involved.

And if he did, how would I react?

"We're coming up on Teteree," Ross observed. "Now what?"

"Um, you can let me out here, at the light." I said. "It's close enough to walk, and I can spare you all the one-way streets and funny turns."

"I appreciate that," he said, although I wasn't sure he did.

He stopped to let me out. I opened the door, but I had to ask: "Ross, did you hear that window last night—?"

He rolled his eyes and said, "Get out of here," in what I think he hoped was a tone both jocular and dismissive.

After he drove off, I finally got it. I finally figured out his emotional setting. Ross was angry. Angry and jealous.

And... I was cured in that moment of my infatuation with Wayne. In fact, I never set foot in that house again.

 

---

 

What followed (from that point until after lunch) was essentially a normal day. NOW, I felt as though today was the first day of the rest of my life. I would like it be, if I could take it as a template. The weather was picture-perfect: blue sky, clean, crisp air, the faintest whisper of a breeze, and a temperature of 74 degrees.

As I walked to Femke's apartment, every single man I passed said Good morning to me. Not "hello"; not anything salacious, or thirsty, or lustful. Just a civil morning greeting. I felt respected, appreciated.

It seemed so life-affirming.

Femke wasn't home, so I dawdled a bit in the bathroom, getting ready. Thankfully I'd already chosen my outfit: the black flared pants with a sleeveless cream-colored top. And the black flats that I meant to wear last night. I liked the overall effect: attractive, but not provocative. Professional, but not cold.

Again, my neck and wrists seemed bare. I was going to have to accessorize soon.

Earrings, too.

Then, after another short walk to my car, I drove to work in a calm, almost leisurely mood. I felt good.

In the office, my presence created a bit of a stir at first, but I spent most of the morning in a room with a woman from the company that does our benefits. I was filling out paperwork — literal pieces of paper — signing up for benefits, putting my direct-deposit into place, and so on.

I took over my old desk, which (to my surprise) needed an complete cleaning. It wasn't so much dirty as dusty, and my computer monitor was absolutely covered with fingerprints. I'm assuming they were my own. Did I really touch the screen that much?

After spending an hour going through Anson's emails, and taking over his client contacts (as though I were a new employee). As I did so, I put together a list of systems I'd need access to. Most of Anson's accounts were (quite rightly) locked when he/I left the company, and I needed new accounts in my own name with the same levels of permissions that I formerly enjoyed.

I stood and took the list to Dave, whose desk was opposite my own. "Hey, Dave. I need some accounts created. I've got a list here..."

To make a long story short, Dave — like all the other coders — was about to start his lunch. I'd forgotten: we coders had all, long ago, gotten into the habit of eating lunch at our desks. It was economical, and often we had to work through lunch. Today, for my part, I'd brought nothing, and Dave, for his part, was just about to begin eating.

Still, he took my list, smoothed it out next to his keyboard, and told me, "First thing... after lunch."

I went outside, to a nearby sandwich shop, and sat down to a generously-sized Cobb salad.

That's as far as I got with my "normal" day: maybe five or so hours, from the moment I stepped out of Ross' car, to the moment my cell phone rang.

I dug the phone out of my backpack and looked at it. An unknown number. I picked it up and said "Hello?"

"Uh, hello," a strong male voice responded. He sounded a trifle uncertain, but only a trifle. "Is this, uh, Merope Goddard?"

"Speaking," I replied. "Who is this?"

"I'm the— I'm— Oh, dammit to hell! I'm Merope Goddard."

 

---

 

"Oh! Wow! Okay," I replied, after I caught my breath. "How are you doing?"

As old Merope spoke, in her clear male voice, I could hear another person there, with her: a young female voice, in the background, muttering to old Merope. She clearly had no idea that I could hear her.

"No chit-chat!" she hissed. "Stick to business! Don't stay on the phone too long!"

Old Merope took a breath, and tried to sound airy and dismissive: "I'm just peachy. But it doesn't matter. I think you have some things that belong to me. I'd like to have them back."

"Um, yeah, sure," I replied. "I'll be happy to give you your things. But first... can you tell me something so I know you're really Merope? Something only Merope would know? Like... what color is your car?"

"Yellow. I have a yellow Toyota Corolla." She sounded a little puzzled. "Do you have it now?"

I heard the young woman go pffft! impatiently. She whispered, "You don't need that car! You don't need it!"

"Tell me one more thing. Something only Merope would know."

The girl hissed: "Ask her about the pen. Does she have the pen?"

Aloud, old Merope: "Do you have my pen?"

"Your beautiful $600 pen? Yes, I've got it."

In the background, a whisper: "Tell her to bring the pen. And everything else."

"I heard," I told him. "I'll bring the pen. I've also got your Monopoly pieces and your money."

Old Merope, surprised: "My money?"

At the same moment, the voice in background: "Fuck that Monopoly crap! And fuck her Monopoly money! We don't *need* her fucking money! We're not a charity case! Ask her about the IP!"

IP? Later on, I figured she meant Intellectual Property.

Old Merope: "Do you have the, um, prototypes and the USB drive?"

Me: "Prototypes? You mean the cylinders?"

The girl scoffed. Old Merope answered: "Yes, the... cylinders."

"I have your USB drive, but the Switcher took the cylinders."

The young girl swore, briefly but strongly. Honestly, I was a little shocked — both by her language and by the violence in her expression. I heard her hit something three times, hard, with her fist... probably a table. Then, sotto voce: "Okay, okay. We need the USB. The USB is enough. Tell her."

"What about the love letter?" I threw that in, the way you drop a stone down a well: to see how deep it is. "Do you want me to bring that as well?"

"The love letter?" Old Merope was struck, surprised.

The girl: "Did she read that? Did she read that? The bitch!"

Old Merope, scrambling a little, to close the conversation: "Okay. Listen. Can we meet? Let's meet tonight at -- do you know-- do you know Braeke's Height? Am I saying that right? Braeke's Height? At seven o'clock tonight. And bring all the stuff."

I considered for a quick moment. "Okay. I'll be there. With all your stuff. But listen, can I ask you a few things?"

The girl in the background make a weird zzzt! zzzt! zzzt! noise — probably to tell old Merope to cut the conversation short.

"I've got to go. I can't stay on the phone too long. But... tonight. We can talk tonight. Braeke's Height, seven o'clock. Will you be there?"

"Yes."

"Just you, okay? Only you."

"I'm bringing a friend," I declared.

"No. No friend."

"You're bringing a friend; I'm bringing a friend. If I can't bring a friend, then I'm not coming."

A few seconds of stunned silence was followed by some whispered discussion. Then: "Okay. One friend. No cops. Don't forget: bring the USB."

Click.