by Saks, Tessa
Click! Ellen stared at the phone in her hand, unable to grasp what just happened and what she should do. It was pointless calling back and making her angrier. She could go and see Patty, explain in person. Yes, and looking like Samantha Miller, I’m sure she’d believe me.
No one would believe me.
What if the body in the hospital died? Will I be Samantha Miller forever? She wondered what would correct this and get her back home where she belonged. The thought of staying like this, of living in squalor and having nothing was horrifying, and as much as she loved the young body, she wanted her life back. I want my house and my things, my husband and family, to wake and return to my daily routine …
“Knock, knock,” Sienna said as she stepped inside the room. “Hey, you look better.”
“Yes, I’m feeling better, but this is very confusing. I don’t know who I am anymore.” Ellen shook her head. “And I’ve lost everything—”
“Come on, chin up. It’s probably from the fever. You were delirious for three days … and you said some pretty weird shit.”
“I did?”
“Oh yeah! I should have taped it. You’d have laughed your ass off—”
“What was I saying?”
Sienna shrugged. “All kinds of weird stuff, like you kept screaming “No, no, stop, stop.” Then you called out for an Uncle George? You seemed pretty pissed off at him.”
Ellen wasn’t sure how to answer. “I used to … he died a long time ago.”
“Well, he was sure in the doghouse. You said a bunch of stuff about babies and kids, like you were a mom or something. It was weird. I swear—you were like that girl in the movie with different personalities … first I thought you were overdosing off some weird shit, but then I remembered we’d been shopping for your dress and went to the movies, so you wouldn’t have had anything, right?”
“Yes …” Ellen answered, nodding in agreement. “Oh yes, right.”
“Just the same, I called my sister. Her husband’s the doctor—well, a medic guy, kinda. He said to take your temperature—that as long as you weren’t throwing up or over a hundred and five degrees—to just let you sleep it off.” Sienna stepped closer adjusting the elastic of her ponytail. “You did scare me, though.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“No problem.” Sienna tapped the doorway. “Listen, I have to head to work—I got that toothpaste commercial I told you about. Oh, and I phoned Bill at the office, told him how sick you are, and that you wouldn’t be better till next week, so you can relax till Monday.”
“Work?” Ellen blurted. “I have to work?”
“Of course you do!” Sienna laughed. “How else will you pay the rent, you fool?”
“Where do I work?”
“Horvath Industries,” Sienna smiled.
“Of course. I remember that, but in which area … I mean, who is my boss?”
“Bill Tate. You work in accounts. Wow, you really did lose a few brain cells in that fever,” Sienna said with a giggle. She turned and walked out the door.
“What if I can’t work?” Ellen called out. “If I don’t remember how?”
Sienna appeared in the doorway again, carrying a large tote bag. “Talk to Bill. I am sure he can figure something out. You’ll need a doctor’s note if you think you’ll be out longer.”
“I suppose I could just not go back … I don’t want to work, I can’t.”
“And get fired! Are you insane? Wouldn’t that look good on your crappy resume?” Sienna stepped closer. “You better show up with a note. You can’t afford to get fired, not the way you’ve been spending, and that hard-up family of yours. You’re three months behind in the rent, anyway—”
“I am? I can’t be—” Ellen hoped she was joking. This was getting worse by the minute.
“Yes. And you borrowed eight hundred from me and three thousand from Rory—”
“Rory?” The name sounded familiar. A brother perhaps? “Who’s Rory again?”
“Come on … the man you have sex with while you wait for Mr. Sugar Daddy to dump his stupid wife and marry you.” Sienna studied her. “You know, your gorgeous little bed buddy.”
You little tramp … cheating on Jonathan. “How dare you!” Ellen cried.
“Huh?”
“How—I mean—I’m sorry. I’m not myself. I can’t think … I don’t remember anything.”
Sienna came into the room and sat beside Ellen. “Sam, we’re friends. I know you don’t mean the things you say a lot of times, and I’m sorry you don’t remember much.” She patted Ellen’s shoulder. “I’ll help you. I’m sure that soon you’ll remember all of this.” She stood, pulling a piece of paper from her bag. “I’ve gotta get to work; here’s my number, don’t lose it. If you need anything, call. But stay in bed and rest, for a few days at least—okay?” Sienna turned to the door. “Oh, and call your mom. She called again.”
“She must be worried about Samantha.”
“That’s funny,” she said, laughing. “Okay, well, remember—call if you need anything.” Sienna turned and closed the door behind her.
Ellen heard the front door lock. She looked around the room, aware that this small pathetic room was all she had now. She had to get out of here. But where? And how?
CHAPTER 16
The next morning, Ellen sat back against the headboard and surveyed the room. A dingy, crowded bedroom, filled with cheap furniture and jam-packed with stacks of shoeboxes, bags and stuffed animals.
Pathetic. Her own daughter never lived like this. At least, Ellen had never seen evidence of it if she did, not since she had left home four years ago. Ellen wondered why she’d never visited her daughter’s new apartment. Brianna’s need for privacy was the excuse Ellen frequently used to cover the fact that she’d never been invited, but mostly she dismissed the thought whenever it arose. Besides, she had bigger worries now. What was she going to do?
She walked over to the closet, about to open the small cream-colored door, coated in many layers of rough paint, and her first thought was to get someone to sand away all the run marks and uneven brushstrokes. She sighed. It would be pointless to fix just the door, for the entire room was as bad or worse. Her hand ran across the recessed panel of the door, picking up layers of dust and grime. She guessed it had been years since anyone bothered to wipe anything. She looked at the clump of dark brown goop collected on her fingertips—perhaps decades.
Rubbing her fingers together to rid herself of the filth, she realized she would have to clean this room—a task she could manage—but she couldn’t imagine sanding and repainting. She would have to hire someone, once she figured out some money. But then again, why bother?
She turned the tarnished brass knob and opened the door to reveal a closet crammed tight with every color and print imaginable. Chaotic. Unorganized. Garish. She tried to pull one of the dresses out, but it caught with other hangers, then pulled on several more hangers. Touching the various pieces, she discovered what kind of clothing Samantha Miller liked—cheap and poorly made, with large topstitching and puckered seams.
Ellen couldn’t imagine buying any of these items, let alone wearing them. Some had frayed edges and broken topstitching. Others were missing buttons or had zippers broken. She managed to pull a long-sleeve top out of the sardined lot and examined it. The side seam twisted all the way to the middle of the back. Ellen tossed the blouse into the trashcan beside the desk.
What could one expect from cotton made in India—they don’t understand how to comb and twist their yarn well enough so that the garment wouldn’t twist and shrink into an unrecognizable rag. She much preferred the highly twisted and combed cottons from Egypt—they know how to make cotton. Ellen thought of her own six-hundred-thread count sheets and her sumptuous Egyptian towels—a far cry from what was on this girl’s bed. Why, hotels had better quality sheets and towels than these. Didn’t Samantha notice the difference?
She looked down at a big pile that lay on
the floor of the closet. Laundry? Rejects? Garbage? Ellen couldn’t be sure. Either way, she wouldn’t be wearing anything kept on the floor.
Behind that heap were the shoes, mostly heels. Strappy heels, pumps, very high heels or tall boots. Ellen grabbed a pair of high silver party heels. Glitter and flash. She slipped her foot into the straps, expecting it to be too small for her wide, bunioned feet. To her surprise, the shoe fit. Of course it fit, she laughed. This narrow foot was hers, at least for now.
Ellen put the other shoe on and fastened the buckles, then looked at herself in the full-length mirror next to the closet. Beautiful, long tanned legs rose up from those tiny feet. She touched the flesh on her new thighs in disbelief. They were smooth. So firm. So flawless. No veins. No discoloration. No saggy skin. No cellulite. Every inch was perfect. She turned to see her back view. Beneath the shorts, she caught sight of a very firm derrière. She grabbed a hand mirror and stared. Round and high. Her hand lifted the thin fabric of the shorts. And firm. I look airbrushed, like a pin up girl, she laughed. I never had a body like this. Even when I was young, I never looked like this.
She faced the mirror again and looked at the tank top she was wearing. Large, buoyant breasts sat perched beneath the fabric. Upright and firm, with no support needed whatsoever. Her hands reached underneath the fabric and pushed them up. They fell back exactly where they started. The skin around them tight. She poked them. They rebounded. She shimmied. They shimmied. No flopping. No drooping. Perfect and pert. She slid the tank top off and stared. They were perfect. No wonder Jonathan enjoyed her so much.
Jonathan! Ellen froze. These breasts were the breasts his lips were kissing. This is the body his hands had been rubbing all these months—these legs, these arms, this stomach, this … she couldn’t say the word as her stomach cramped. She walked over to the bed and sat, trying to imagine Jonathan and Samantha making love, here, on this bed. It made her shudder with a blend of both disgust and envy.
As she lay back on the bed, she tried to visualize what it was like. Did Samantha enjoy it? As he grunted and panted, did this young body enjoy his touch? Did he paw her, attacking her like a crazed dog? Or was he gentle and loving?
Ellen touched the breasts again. She felt tingles as the nipples hardened. He would love this. She knew it deep inside and it was no surprise to her. Never in her life did Ellen have breasts like these, not even during breastfeeding. They had enlarged, but not into a high round, perky large—more into an oversized, soft large that drooped due to weight and gravity.
Back then, Jonathan had certainly enjoyed the extra cup sizes. It was after breastfeeding Brianna that Ellen fully realized how much he loved large breasts and when hers eventually deflated, as they do once breastfeeding stops, all she was left with was sagging breasts. Once they went back to normal size, had he ever touched them? No. It was as if touching them was so abhorrent, so unappetizing, he didn’t dare risk losing his erection by the mere touch of them.
But then, hadn’t she also recoiled? Hadn’t she backed away whenever he attempted to touch them, well aware of how unappealing they were, feeling embarrassment and shame. Had she discouraged his touch?
Ellen covered the new breasts with her hands. She imagined how much pleasure these breasts would give him, how he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from touching them. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t chosen to lose her full, beautiful breasts, to have them distort into a disappointment for both of them. But at least she had breasts. Many women lose one or both of their breasts and their husbands still touch them, still make love to them.
Or do they? Are men that obsessed that they can’t see past the breasts? It sickened her to realize that the loss of her breasts coincided with the loss of lovemaking in their marriage. They were an unintended symbol of what was to be lost, incrementally, as the years sailed past, vanishing quietly along the way. She touched the smooth firm flesh again.
But I have this body now, she reminded herself. This is my body now. I can be with him just like her. I can give him pleasure again, make him love to touch me, caress me, hold me. It can be as it once was. And he can love me as he should. I am not my old body anymore.
But then, who is? Ellen’s thoughts turned to Sam again.
Is she in my body now? Did she die? Ellen wondered if what she had done was a sin. She said a quick prayer to erase any guilt. I can be Samantha Miller. I can do this. For as long as this situation exists. I can do this. Who knows, I may even enjoy it.
She found herself excited at the thought of seeing Jonathan … especially with this beautiful body.
An appointment book, resting on a stack of papers on top of the small metal desk, caught Ellen’s attention. She picked it up and flipped through it, unsure of what she hoped to find. Messy handwriting filled in the occasional days, highlighted with colored doodles and stickers. How juvenile, she thought as she tossed the book aside.
She started searching the drawers, looking for anything that could tell her more about Samantha’s life. On the desk lay a package of cigarettes. Ellen picked them up, pulled one out and started to light it with the silver lighter. She suddenly dropped them both as if they were toxic. What am I doing? I don’t smoke. She quickly tossed the package into the trashcan.
As she rummaged through the contents of the desk, she found old movie stubs, pawn shop stubs, a bottle of hand lotion, half-used cosmetics, various office supplies and broken bits of jewelry until finally, something of interest—a stack of letters bundled together with a bunch of greeting cards. She carried them over to the bed and sat down. As she untied the pink satin ribbon, she couldn’t help feeling certain of their contents. The first letter confirmed her fears.
My beautiful love, I miss you more than you could ever imagine. I feel an emptiness that only you can heal. You can’t imagine how hard it is to endure living without you.
Do you miss me? I can only hope that you feel as much as I do, that you feel as empty as I do. Only then will you know the pain I endure without you. Only then will you experience what hell it is to live away from you.
My life. My soul. My forever love.
Ellen’s hand trembled as she read and reread every word, each touching phrase—words that she had longed to hear. Words that she used to hear … long ago, once upon a time. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, pressing the letter to her heart. She wanted to tear the letter into a thousand little pieces … but another part of her imagined the words were meant for her. Could they be? Why not? I am, now, Samantha. But am I? Am I really Samantha Miller? Could I believe these words are for me? After all, the words are meant for this body.
Ellen sat up again and looked through the cards and remaining letters.
I miss you. I love you. I need you. I long for you. I desire you.
Everything she had wanted to hear all these years … needed to hear, as if starved for any morsel of love he could spare.
She bundled the cards and letters together, leaving the first letter aside, and carried the remainder to the bathroom. She opened the bathroom window, closed the door and picked up the lighter lying next to the candles that lined the edge of the bathtub. Holding the bundle in one hand, she held the lighter to the bottom corner and flicked it, watching the flame reach the folded edges of the papers. It slowly started to burn. As the flames grew larger, Ellen turned her hand, away from the spreading flames. Within a minute, the bundle was too hot to hold and she dropped it into the tub and watched it reduce to crisp black ashes.
Ellen sat on the edge of the tub and stared at her heroic gesture, symbolizing an end to the betrayal and the hurt, of words given to another. An end to heartache and treachery. An end to pain and suffering. And out of the ashes, her phoenix would rise and Ellen would be victorious.
Ellen would finally—for the first time in decades—feel loved.
***
Sam lay in the darkness, aware only of the intense pain in her head and the numbness in her body. Had she drank too much? She tried to remember, but no mem
ory surfaced. Images flashed into her mind but slipped away, too fast to hang on to. She tried to roll on her side. She couldn’t move. Her body felt encased in a concrete tomb, dead weight pressing against her chest, holding her.
Was she dreaming? What had happened?
Suddenly, the room started tilting, as if she was falling.
Falling, slowly …
Down. Down. Falling deeply …
Falling into sleep.
***
Ellen walked into the bedroom after her burning ritual ended, feeling somewhat triumphant, and spotted a photo of Samantha and Jonathan resting on the dresser. It was a beach somewhere, with Samantha in a bikini and Jonathan grinning next to her, in a tight embrace. Ellen slammed the frame onto the floor, hoping it would shatter. It didn’t. They stared up at her, his arms wrapped around her tiny waist, that beautiful young body.
This beautiful young body … mine now. Ellen touched the smooth skin of her new face. Would he know the difference? Would it matter? She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. It still seemed strange, to look and see someone else in the mirror, to see the woman you hated most in the world stare back at you. And worse, to not only look like her, but to be her.
For how long? She wished she had some idea what would happen when her old body finally woke. Was Sam in there? Would they switch back as if nothing had happened?
Ellen’s hand ran through the long silky hair that was now hers. Ellen pulled the brush through the thick mane of shiny brown hair. She turned her head from side to side, allowing the full weight of the hair to swing and bounce. She smiled at the stranger in the mirror. Such a pretty face, such firm skin. Her hands touched her smooth cheeks as she smiled. She puckered her lips into a kiss. No wrinkles radiating out, just full kissable lips.
She sat back on the bed and surveyed the room. It had been in complete disarray, as if Samantha had left in a hurry and not returned. There were cigarette butts in the ashtray on the nightstand. Who would dare smoke in bed? The dresser, covered in burned down candles, was another fire hazard. A hairbrush lay next to a hand mirror, a brush filled with dark brown hair, as did the hot rollers and the hair elastics strewn across the dresser and in the top drawer.