One Past Midnight

by Jessica Shirvington

  When I woke up, it took no time at all for everything to come flooding back. It felt like reality reached out and walloped me across the face. Hard.

  I was out of bed and in front of my mirror in an instant, staring at the same image of myself I always saw in this world—if a little puffy around the eyes. My long brown hair was stuck to one side of my face and hung down to just above my waist. I lifted my top to show a very normal bare expanse of skin over my ribs and belly, and both my legs and arms were unmarked, except for the relatively small scratch I’d received in the basement.

  I grabbed my watch off the nightstand. It was just after midday, which meant the laxatives had had plenty of time to work their way into my system.

  I went to the bathroom. No sign of the package-promised results. But while I was in there I did throw up. Due, I’m fairly sure, to my vodka-punch consumption over the course of the night more than anything else. I mentally chastised myself and resolved never to get drunk again.

  Having no idea what to do with all this newfound information, I opted for routine. I took a shower, changed into a cute sundress, and put on my favorite red kitten heels. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so I plastered a smile on my face and went downstairs—only to endure a forty-five-minute lecture from Mom.

  After the tenth time she said, “I just want what’s best for you,” I zoned out, studying the walnut grain of the dining-room table. Her heart wasn’t in it anyway. And when she huffed and pushed a sandwich in front of me, saying, “You look like you’re fading away,” I knew the lecture was over.

  The smart thing would’ve been to go back to bed. I needed more sleep. I’d lost count of how many hours I’d been awake—in both lives—before finally passing out in the early hours of the morning. But with my swirling thoughts sleep wasn’t really an option. And besides, there was something even more pressing that I absolutely had to do.

  • • •

  “Cut it. Not too much, and shape it around the sides, leaving the length at the back. Color needs to be much lighter, but with tones. Make sure you keep some warmth in there. But definitely blond.”

  The stylist forced a smile, looking at me like she was having second thoughts about her career choice. I sympathized, but held my ground. I wasn’t going to let the hairdresser have free rein in this life. It was essential that my new hair be Wellesley appropriate.

  While she shampooed and conditioned my hair with organic products, I finally let my mind slide into murky waters. The thing was, now that I was in this new situation, I couldn’t imagine a way back. Not knowing what I now knew.

  All my life, there’d been no choice. I lived two lives and that was it. Never just one or the other—broken in two and all alone. But now . . . now there was a chance. Hope. The possibility of a normal existence.

  If the physical parts of me were not connected . . . If what I did in one life in no way affected the other . . . If I could bleed in one and not the other, cut off parts of myself, dye them different colors . . . If I could take laxatives and get drunk and have none of those things cause any reaction in my other body, then to some degree—a very relevant degree—I was two separate bodies. And if I was two separate bodies—and one of me was to stop existing—the other should continue.

  And I’d have just the one life.

  But . . .

  There was still one more test to carry out before things could go any further.

  My new blond hair, styled the way it had been crying out to be for so long in this world, did not disappoint.

  When Mom saw me, she was so delighted she forgot all about being unhappy with me and shooed me away when I offered to help with the cleaning up.

  A multilevel victory.

  It would have been the perfect opportunity to visit Miriam and Lucy for a gloat session. Or better yet, Dex. I was certain he would forgive my strange behavior last night when he saw the new me. But I was dead on my feet after the three-hour makeover and still had a hangover. Bed was the only option.

  Lying back on my silk sheets in the early evening, confidence on high, I decided on my next move.

  It was a risk.

  But if I could get through this final test, I would have options I’d never thought possible. I considered setting an alarm to wake me up before the Shift, but I was so tired I couldn’t be bothered. Waking up groggy in this world or the next, it made little difference right now, and at least I wouldn’t have to go through the pre-Shift jitters.

  The transition turned out to be the smoothest in days. I’d been fast asleep in my Wellesley world when I shifted back to Roxbury. Normally the conflict of a sleeping mind being thrust into an alert physical body was disorienting to the extreme. But I was so exhausted, I was almost numb to the change. Post-Shift I simply registered my still-broken wrist, the cuts aching on my leg, belly, and arm, and then rode the adjustment period, dropping off to sleep soon after in my gray flannel sheets.

  I’m sure I could’ve slept for hours, but instead my sleep was seriously interrupted as, several frantic times, I paid for my experiment.

  The laxatives had kicked in.

  By the time I had no fluid left in my body, I crawled back into bed with every intention of spending the entire day sleeping it off. Maddie, however, had other ideas.

  By mid-morning she was bouncing persistently on the end of my bed. At first I mumbled for her to go away and buried my head under the blankets, but then I remembered that today was . . . well, today.

  I had things to do.

  “Binie, come on, get up! Mom says you have to come down and see her before she goes to work.”

  I groaned, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. Everything hurt.

  “I didn’t think she was working today,” I muttered.

  Maddie just shrugged and took one final jump on the bed, landing on her butt beside me. “Said she’s going in with Dad to do something.”

  “Oh,” I said, still sifting through my thoughts. “What are you up to today, kiddo?” I tried to keep my voice light, but I couldn’t look after her today.

  Maddie slumped. “Mrs. Jefferies is picking me up.”

  I gave the top of her head a rub and kissed it. “You’ll be okay. You always have fun in the end.”

  She squirmed. “Yeah, but I want to stay here with you.”

  “I’d love that too, but I have to go out today and do some stuff. We can hang out tomorrow after school if you like. Maybe go to the park?”

  Maddie never missed a beat. “What stuff do you have to do today? Are you going to be home tonight?”

  “Not sure, kiddo. I might be staying out.”

  She slid off the bed and trudged toward the door.

  “Love you, Maddie,” I said lightly.

  She couldn’t help but turn and give me a little smile. “Love you too, Binie.” Then she leaped into my arms and gave me a Maddie specialty death squeeze before she was gone, her feet bounding loudly down the stairs.

  I dropped my face into my good hand and sighed.

  “What are you doing, Sabine?” I whispered, but just as quickly I rubbed my hand up and down, as if I could scrub the thought from my mind.

  I had to know.

  After an awkward, arm-wrapped-in-plastic-bag shower, I reapplied Band-Aids to last night’s handiwork, dressed in a black cotton skirt, longer than usual at just above my knee, and a fitted burgundy T-shirt with long sleeves. It took twice as long to get ready with my banged-up wrist, but I managed to work out most things—even my standard heavy-handed application of eyeliner and mascara, which worked well with my new black shaggy cut.

  I sat down on my bed to start grappling with my boots, but instead I picked up my bag and found myself holding the plain white box of pills that would be my final test. I cringed when I remembered dropping my bag and how badly things could’ve gone when Ethan found the pills.

  I couldn’t risk something like that happening again.

  Without another thought I started popping out the pills and placing them on m
y bedside table. One by one, I used the base of my water glass to crush them, reminding myself not to crush too many, but just enough.

  Digoxin was the perfect drug. I’d seen people come into the drugstore after taking an incorrect dose. As a heart medica-tion, mistakes resulted in an array of side effects, including blurred vision, heart palpitations, nausea—it was quite a long list. It was the ideal way to test an internal physical response to a toxin. Best of all, there was an antidote—Digibind—so if things went completely out of control, something could be done about it.

  “A responsible risk,” I murmured while I searched around my room. “Aha!”

  I pulled the necklace out from a pile of junk on my dresser and started to twist the top off the silver butterfly pendant. Capri and I had both bought pendant necklaces at the flea market last year. Hers had a silver skull, but I’d preferred the butterfly, and we’d both liked that they had secret chambers. At the time, we’d joked that they’d come in handy when we were smuggling drugs.

  Carefully I swept the powdered digoxin onto a piece of paper and funneled it into the bullet-shaped body of the butterfly before securing the head back in place.

  If only Capri could see me now.

  I cleaned away the evidence, taking the rest of the digoxin and packing it, along with my slice-and-dice tools, into my backpack. I’d keep it with me and dump it at some stage during the day. I didn’t want stuff like this lying around, especially the pills, where Maddie could stumble across them. I slipped on the pendant, grabbed my backpack, and headed down to the kitchen just as the front door closed.

  “Maddie?” I asked Mom and Dad, who were sitting at the kitchen table rifling through paperwork.

  Mom glanced up briefly, her glasses resting halfway down her nose, making her look older than she was. “Just left with Mrs. Jefferies.”

  I nodded, poured some water into the kettle, and began making toast. I also doled out a couple of painkillers the doctor had prescribed for my wrist. It wasn’t actually causing me much trouble, but I figured the pain relief might help with my still-throbbing cuts.

  When I sat at the table, no one was talking. Mom stared at Dad like she was waiting for something, but Dad ignored her and readjusted his pale-blue tie. He insisted on wearing one every day. As if the tie alone could make him, make us, better somehow.

  The silence became uncomfortable.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked between mouthfuls of toast. Dad continued staring at the same piece of paper he’d been focused on since I’d walked into the room. Mom squirmed in her chair.

  “It’s probably just a misunderstanding, sweetie.” She gave me a reassuring nod that didn’t match the concerned look in her eyes.

  “What is?” I put down my slice of toast, my cast clanking on the edge of my plate.

  Dad looked up at me from behind the sheet of paper. Something in his eyes—the way they looked at me, but didn’t focus on me—set off my internal alarms. “Denise called this morning. She did a random stock check before she closed up last night. On the prescription meds.” His glare intensified. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

  Oh.

  Shit.

  I thought I’d covered all bases. Normally inventory happened midweek, which would have given me a few days between working at the store and other casual staff taking shifts. It should’ve been impossible for the missing drugs to be traced back to me.

  Why the hell did Denise decide to . . . ?

  Then I remembered how I’d been too nervous to look around when Ethan handed me back the box of pills. Denise must have seen enough to be suspicious.

  I wasn’t ready for this.

  “Sabine?” Dad snapped.

  I grabbed hold of my pendant, sliding the butterfly up and down the dainty silver chain, thinking fast.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “You could start with the truth,” Dad replied.

  I looked at Mom, holding her gaze as if I had nothing to hide. “About what?”

  Think, think, think!

  My mouth was so dry, my words were starting to stick.

  “About the box of heart medication that walked out of the store yesterday. They were only delivered in the morning and were gone by the afternoon. Apart from Denise, you and your mother were the only ones in the store with access.” Dad’s neck was getting red patches. He was starting to lose it, glaring at Mom like she should be doing something.

  Mom jumped in. “Sabine, I don’t know what you . . . Maybe you could explain—”

  But it wasn’t good enough for Dad and he cut her off. “It’s heart medication, Sabine!” He stood up, scraping the chair roughly across the floor. “What were you thinking? If you think you can get high on that stuff, you’re sorely mistaken! You would’ve had better luck in the cough medicine aisle!” He started pacing around the table.

  Eyes wide, I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Mom was reaching across the table to hold my hand, as if pleading for an explanation, something that could stop this runaway train. Problem was, my mind was drawing a blank.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t even go there! We know it was you. Even Denise knows it was you! How do you think that makes us look? Having staff who know that our own daughter would steal from us? Did you even think about what people would say?”

  Dad’s foot snagged one of the straps of my bag and he stumbled, almost taking a nose-dive. It was the final straw. After regaining his balance, he grabbed my backpack and upended it on the table.

  I leaped up to stop him, but Mom’s previously comforting hand suddenly morphed into a viselike grip.

  It felt as if everything happened in slow motion. The contents of my bag spilled onto the table. Amid the stash of blood-soaked bandages sat a half-emptied box of pills and a box of extra-strength laxatives.

  And just to complete the parental nightmare—the kitchen filleting knife landed with a dull thump.

  Mom gasped and Dad looked at me as if every terrible thought he’d ever had about me had been leading to this moment of ultimate disappointment. Before I could think, my mouth was open.

  “I can explain! Let me explain.”

  Mom nodded, squeezing my hand and then releasing some of the pressure. Dad raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Go on then, Sabine,” he said. “Explain.” His tone was flat and dubious.

  I took a deep breath, tried to start and failed. Heart pounding, I took another breath and mentally counted to ten. And then, my life of hidden truths, of divided worlds, my secrets, my wrongness . . . The walls I’d worked so hard for so long to construct tumbled down around me. I didn’t know if it was because I’d been caught thanks to the change in the rules or the result of some dire need to defend myself and shock my quick-to-judge parents, but when I searched in the bottomless barrel of lies that never seemed to fail me . . . Nothing. Not one little excuse sprung to mind.

  “I have two lives,” I blurted.

  Mom looked perplexed. Of all the things she’d expected me to say in my defense, this was certainly not one of them. But then, as her mind ticked over the possible explanations for that one comment, the color drained from her face and her expression changed to horrified.

  I took another breath. “I’ve been this way ever since I was born—living every day twice. I wake up in the morning here, in my bed with you as my family, and I live my day. But every night, at midnight, I go through this kind of Shift—that’s what I call it. One second I’m here in this life. The next, I’m in another life, and for the next twenty-four hours until midnight I’m in that life, with my family there. When I get back here, it’s as if no time has passed.”

  Tears slipped down my face as I looked at my parents, desperately willing them to see past the craziness of my words to the truth in my eyes. “I know this is weird. It’s why I’ve never told anyone—I never thought there was anything I could do to change it. But . . . but lately something has changed. Before, if something happened to my body i
t would affect me in my other world—like when I got tonsillitis in this world, I had it there too. Now, for some reason things aren’t crossing over. So I’ve been . . . trying to figure it out.” I swallowed.

  “You live in two worlds?” Dad said very softly.

  “Dad, please believe me.”

  “You have two different families?” Mom said, equally stunned, eyes welling.

  “Look, I know this sounds crazy. But I can explain it all so you understand. I just need you to know why I have the pills”—I glanced at my bag’s incriminating contents—“and the other stuff.”

  Finally Dad nodded and turned to face me. “Well, make it clear to us, Sabine.”

  “Okay,” I said, blowing out a breath, relieved he seemed to be at least willing to hear more. “I don’t know when the change happened, maybe since I turned eighteen, but when I broke my wrist, that was the first sign. When I shifted the other night, my wrist wasn’t broken in my other world.”

  Mom was silent, but Dad nodded me on and I couldn’t help but feel a rush at finally being able to tell them all of this. My deepest fears of him yelling “liar” and throwing me out of the house weren’t coming true.

  I sat up in my chair. “After that, I decided I needed to know for sure. I mean, the physical parts of me have always been connected, but now . . . Well, if they aren’t, everything is different. So I started conducting tests. First my hair.”

  “And how did that go?” Dad asked.

  I felt myself nodding. “Great. I mean, for the first time I was able to cut my hair and not have it change in my other world.” I couldn’t help the hesitant smile. Dad made a feeble attempt to return one. I took it as another encouraging sign. “When I went back there I had my hair dyed blond, and it didn’t change anything here either. And then . . .” I stalled.

  “It’s okay, Sabine, you can tell us. We can see you’ve been . . . trying out some other theories,” Dad said, sounding surprisingly calm as he glanced at the bloodied bandages heaped in the center of the table.

  For the first time in my life, I considered that maybe they’d always known, had figured it out somehow. I felt a surge of relief as I continued to explain. Maybe they could help me work this out. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I’d always assumed.