Body Jumping

by Brenda Lowder

I can’t buy into Barclay’s theory. Not that I’m even sure he does. I suspect his theatricality leads him to make sweeping declarations more for effect than out of deeply held beliefs. Someone’s—anyone’s—life did not equate to a gum wrapper.

  But maybe there wasn’t a rush. Maybe I could do a little shopping with Barclay and go to the hospital this afternoon. Evie was safe inside me somewhere, hopefully, and Julianne’s—my—body wasn’t going anywhere so maybe I had an hour or two to shop. I’ve never been a size four before—I’m guessing at Evie’s size here—and I’ve never been beautiful.

  Shopping as Evie would be fun.

  ∞∞∞

  Money is a problem, of course.

  Presumably Evie doesn’t have any. She seems to have negative money since drug dealers are shaking her down for it. Although my modest spending habits mean I have a healthy checking account balance, I’ll have trouble accessing it since my purse with my ATM and credit cards is most likely being watched over by Laurel.

  I worry for a long time about what to do. In the end, I decide to write Barclay a big check from the checkbook I keep in my desk drawer, and he can cash it for me so I don’t have to show an ID I don’t have.

  If I’m Evie for long, I’m going to need an ID. Should I risk going back to Evie’s place to look for her wallet and driver’s license? Or should I try to get a fake one?

  Not used to a life of crime, I have no idea how much a fake ID will cost. Probably more than I can afford, especially since I’ll be living on my cash for the foreseeable future. I decide to table the ID question for later and instead write the check for almost everything I have in my account. My money’s no good to me if I can’t access it. If I’m stuck being Evie for long, I’ll need to find a job as her. But before I can do anything as Evie, I need something to wear. Julianne’s lumpy gray clothes fall off Evie’s thinner frame, and the torn T-shirt and yoga pants she was wearing are not welcome in our home according to Barclay.

  It’s almost embarrassing how much I enjoy trying on clothes and looking at myself in the mirror in Evie’s body. The fact that Barclay is having at least as much fun as I am is slightly vindicating. He’s holding court in a tufted wingback chair at the end of the row of dressing rooms. So far he has given unsolicited opinions on the outfits of two other ladies in the changing rooms as well as mine.

  “Mrs. Carter, yes! Peach is your color! Now honey, go find it in something other than a track suit!” An elderly lady throws up her hands and shuffles back into her changing room.

  “Julianne! Yes! Get that one!” he practically screams at me as he enthuses over the latest contender. This is a red form-fitting cocktail dress, asymmetrical at the top so that it goes over only one shoulder.

  I turn so I can look at my back, which is amply exposed in the backless dress. I’m surprised at the lack of tattoos on Evie’s body. I would have expected her to have several, but maybe that’s stereotyping. I don’t really have anything against tattoos except that I feel like they’re not me. And even though I’m Evie, I feel more like me without them. “I don’t know where I’d wear it.”

  Barclay shakes his head. “Umm…try anywhere. You, in that dress, are fab-U-lous. Get it. Love it. It’s got to happen. Next!”

  I’ve already bought a few pairs of jeans—and can I just say what a delight it is to shop for jeans when you’re rail-thin and have the hips of a twelve-year-old? It’s a revelation. They’re less expensive, too, than the bigger sizes. I’ve also bought some tops and skirts. And a new cell phone, of course. But a cocktail dress seems a little over the top. Although it is on clearance...

  “It’s really overkill if I just switch bodies back when I go to the hospital later.”

  Barclay snorts. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  My head snaps up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you tried getting back in already. You told me. Back when you were Greg, the over-six-feet-of-hotness, and it didn’t work. Why would it work now?”

  “Maybe because I’m someone else. I haven’t tried it as Evie. And I’m kicking myself that I didn’t try it as Natasha.”

  He shrugs and shakes his head. “Wouldn’t have worked.”

  “Why not?”

  Barclay rolls his eyes and huffs at my slow-wittedness. “Because there are rules.”

  I lean against the changing room doorframe. “How do you know the rules?”

  “I watch a lot of TV, okay?”

  “This isn’t TV.”

  “I know. I know. Whatever.” He waves a dismissive hand in the direction of my face. “I’m just saying I think this is a train you’re stuck on until the conductor says the ride’s over.”

  I take a deep breath and think about what Barclay said. I don’t like the idea of having no control. Or of not trying. Before I can open my mouth to argue with him, he says, “It doesn’t matter. You should still buy the dress. It’s a bargain.”

  I look down and love the sweep of the red fabric hugging my willowy form. “I don’t know,” I say. Barclay’s face falls.

  “Sure. Whatever.” He gets up from the chair and starts to walk from the fitting room. “Live your boring life,” he throws back over his shoulder.

  I don’t want my boring life. I want something new, exciting. Today as Evie—even just these few hours spent with Barclay—have been fresh, exhilarating, exciting. I deeply hope that I can carry this new zest for life over to my own body when I make my way back. Just a taste of other people, other lives, has me thinking about how I can improve my own when I get back to it. Maybe I’ll join a gym and get a bit fitter so I’ll like trying on clothes like this. And maybe I’ll start dressing more colorfully. And get Barclay to help me with my hair and makeup as Julianne. Surely improvements could be made. I may not be a knockout like Evie, but I’m seeing opportunities.

  “I’ll take it,” I say. Barclay turns around and claps for me. I decide one cocktail dress won’t kill me, and it’ll be Evie’s once I’m out and she’s back. It’ll be a nice gift that will hopefully help inspire her to start over. Make different life choices. Like me.

  ∞∞∞

  It’s after five when Barclay drops me off at the hospital, despite his protests that I’m wasting a golden opportunity to be attractive if I switch my body back. I try not to be offended.

  When I get to room 529, I find that my body is still there and, to my relief, Laurel is not. I stride over to the bed. The woman lying there looks grayer now, I think, and thinner, less inflated, as if she is a Mylar balloon that has started leaking air.

  I realize with a start that I’m thinking of Julianne, this inert body on the narrow hospital bed, not as a person, but as a something. A something that has little if anything to do with myself and my sense of me.

  Dangerous territory.

  Without wasting any more time, I take Julianne’s hand in mine. Nothing happens. It’s just like when I was Greg trying the same thing. There’s no whoosh, there’s no rush, there’s no redeemed claim ticket on a life that should be mine.

  Another failure.

  So why do I feel relieved?

  I tell myself to try harder so I hold Julianne’s hand between both of Evie’s and do what every body-swapping TV show and movie has taught me. I whisper, “I want to go back. I want to go back. I want to go back.” Nothing happens.

  Then, “I wish I was me again. I wish I was me again. I wish I was me again.” Apparently I think saying something three times is the magical incantation that will work. It doesn’t.

  I try visualizing myself as a spirit, unsticking from Evie’s body and spooling out through her hand and into mine. Concentrating hard, I will it to work. Nope. Nada. Nothing.

  My spirit passing over from Greg to Natasha happened when she kissed him on the neck. I guess it’s worth a try. I bend down and kiss Julianne’s neck. I don’t feel anything. I kiss harder.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I spin around to find Laurel glaring at me. I blanch. Did she see the ki
ss? Or was she too far away? Or at the wrong angle? Doesn’t she ever go home?

  “Oh, hello. You must be Laurel.” Putting on a sad smile, I cross over to her and offer my hand. “I’m Evie. I’m a friend of Julianne’s from the bookstore.”

  Laurel shakes my hand, but the suspicion doesn’t leave her eyes.

  Oh, yeah, she saw the kiss.

  She doesn’t release my hand until I tug it away. She gives me the side-eye. “Have you known my sister long?”

  “Since she started working at In the Cup. We’re really good friends.” My eyes dart to the door, and I wonder if I can just side-step Laurel and come back to try again later. Though I have no idea what else I can try.

  As if sensing my desire to escape, Laurel steps closer and blocks me. “Would you like to sit with me? Visit for a while?”

  I wonder if she means visit my body or visit with her, but I don’t question her. Instead I nod and she leads me to the seat Brent was sitting in the day before, the seat next to her usual post.

  When we sit, she angles her body toward me. Oh great, interrogation time.

  “So what do you do at the bookstore? Evie, was it?”

  “Yes, Evie,” I confirm. I smooth my new black skirt down with my restless hands. “I sell books.” I shrug. “I stock books when the new shipments come in, run the cash register, fill special orders, the usual.” What’s she expecting me to reveal? Maybe I’m reading too much into my sister’s motives. Maybe she’s just lonely. “In the mornings I work at the coffee counter.”

  She rests her chin on her hand and skewers me with a look. “Do you know Aiden?” And then again, maybe she’s hell bent on discrediting me and my entire life, proving once and for all that she’s better than me in every possible way. Yes, that sounds more like the Laurel I know.

  “Julianne’s boyfriend?” I ask, my tone super casual and downright arch. I silently congratulate myself.

  Laurel blinks, and I wonder if I’ve surprised her, if she has expected to find out that Julianne’s life is as empty and loveless as she thought.

  Not today, sister.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve met him a couple of times. I don’t know him well.”

  She nods like she understands, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I remember that I’m Evie, Julianne’s friend, and should be asking the questions a close friend would ask. “So what are the doctors saying?” I look over at my body and listen to the slow beeps of the machines.

  Laurel takes a deep breath, and a tear escapes from the corner of her eye. My heart squeezes. Even though we don’t really get along, and even though there are mountains of emotional baggage between us, underneath there is still love.

  “They don’t know anything.” The tear tracks down her cheek, and she grabs a tissue from the small table next to my body’s bed. “The doctor says the longer she’s in a coma, the less likely it will be that she’ll come out of it.” She makes an honest-to-goodness sob and blows her nose into the tissue. She gets another one.

  Oddly, incredibly, I start to cry. Maybe it’s because Laurel seems to be coming apart or maybe it’s really dawning on me that I don’t know how to get back into my body, and I’m stuck on the outside of my life, or maybe I’m realizing that there really is something to mourn here, a reason I should miss being me.

  Even if I haven’t missed me yet.

  Laurel hands me a handful of tissues. “You really are good friends with her, aren’t you?”

  I nod and blow my nose. “We’re very, very close.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to seem unfriendly. It’s just that she’s never mentioned you.”

  She turns her clear blue eyes on me. I can read her mind. Hmm…and just why hasn’t Julianne mentioned such a good friend before?

  I wave my tissue at her. “Oh, you know how it is. Work is such a drag. No one likes to talk about it once they’re done for the day, right?”

  Laurel tilts her head. “Huh. I guess.” I know that look. She doesn’t buy it. “It’s just that Julianne has always loved work—has loved hanging out at the bookstore and the coffee shop. I think it’s her happy place.”

  “It is.” I bounce my head up and down in agreement. She’s right. I can’t believe Laurel knows me so well. “She’s very happy there. Maybe she’s just become a more private person and doesn’t tell people all her business anymore.”

  Laurel bites her lip. “Maybe.”

  “I don’t tell my sister anything.” I think about Natasha, Evie’s real sister, and again think about her driving away. I wonder how long it’s been since they’d been truly involved in each other’s lives. Maybe never. At least Laurel and I aren’t that bad.

  “Oh. We did. Or, I thought we did.” Laurel turns a sad smile on me, and there’s a sudden tightness in my chest. Impulsively, I get up and hug her. She hesitates a moment, her hands at her sides, and then hugs me back. I pat her back, hoping I’ve reassured her. Hoping that despite the strange packaging, that somewhere in me is the comforting familiarity of the sister she knows and loves.

  I pull back, my hands still on her arms. “It’s going to be okay.” I manage quite a bit of authority in my tone. “I know it. I feel it. Julianne will find her way back to us.”

  Laurel nods and stands. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I am. She’ll figure out how to get back…from wherever she is down there in her brain. She’ll heal. Then she’ll come back.”

  “Thank you, Evie.” Laurel hugs me again, and the guilt seeps in. How much is this hurting her? I’d fix it if I could. I’m trying, Laurel. I really am.

  I bid her goodbye and leave her there, a final look over my shoulder showing me that she’s pulled her chair up against Julianne’s bedside, continuing her pointless vigil for her sister who isn’t there.

  Chapter Ten

  Barclay, please can I borrow your car?” I startle him at the sink while he’s elbow-deep in lemon-infused suds.

  “Unh-unh. No, ma’am. Nobody drives Ms. Lightning but me.” I assume Barclay’s name for his car, Ms. Lightning, is ironic since it’s a ten-year-old Ford Focus. Serviceable, yes, lightning-quick, no.

  He gives me a look and rinses his soapy hands.

  I use my best pleading tone. “Well then, can you drive me? Please?”

  He gasps and clutches his chest with the damp dish towel. “And expose myself to that drug dealer character you told me about? No ma’am. That asshole is still giving me nightmares, and I wasn’t even there!”

  I perch on a barstool and watch Barclay dry the dishes, thinking. We’d just had dinner together for the first time since he’d moved in. I made a chicken casserole and in exchange he offered to do the dishes. It was homey, nice. Barclay and I are becoming real friends. I try not to dwell on the fact that this is only happening after I became Evie and that Julianne had not made the cut in the audition for Barclay’s friendship.

  I push the unhelpful thought away and concentrate on my next move. The more I think about it, the more I feel like I really need to go back to Evie’s apartment and get whatever personal proof of identity I can find. It would help a lot if I had her driver’s license.

  I turn back and forth a little on the swiveling barstool. “What if you drove me over there but didn’t get out of the car? You could keep the engine running for a quick getaway.”

  He pauses with a spoon in his hand and his face lights up. “Oooh. A getaway driver.” He throws the spoon into the silverware drawer and then closes it with his hip. “I like the sound of that.”

  “You’d be safe. If anything went wrong—if you felt weird about being there or anything—you could just go. You wouldn’t have to wait on me.” Heaven knows Natasha didn’t. Maybe it’s foolish of me, but I trust my ability to get away a second time if I have to. Maybe I’d try to bring an actual weapon this time. Or as near an approximation as I could find.

  Barclay pitches his voice lower than normal. “You’re saying I could cut and run if the shit gets too real.”
>
  I want to laugh at him, but he’s being serious. “Uh-huh. Yeah. You sure could.” I don’t comment on how excited he is at the thought of ditching me and leaving me to fend for myself in a sketchy place.

  “The driver. The bag man. The horizon chaser.” He shimmies his shoulders with each new job title, then stretches his arms out, grasping toward an invisible distant point.

  “Um. Okay. There’s not going to be any actual treasure, though, to necessitate a bag.”

  He shows me his palm in a stop motion and shakes his head. “Whatever. I’ll do it.”

  ∞∞∞

  I manage to direct Barclay back to Evie’s apartment despite having run from there in terror the last time. I remembered the address the real Evie had given me over the phone when I was Natasha.

  Sometimes my lives confuse me.

  Insisting he stay in character, Barclay won’t get out of the car and instead keeps the engine running, though I hear the click of the automatic locks as soon as I exit the vehicle. When I turn to look at him over my shoulder, he waves at me. He’s having entirely too much fun. And has missed his calling as a pivotal team member of a bank heist crew.

  I carry a screwdriver and a hammer in my purse. In addition to being the closest things to weapons I own, they’ll help me jimmy open the door since I don’t have the key. I figure I can’t count on it being open like last time.

  I needn’t have worried. The door opens with little pressure as soon as I turn the knob. When I get inside I see why. The screws are half out of the inside of the doorknob, and it isn’t catching. I push the door closed as far as it will go.

  In Evie’s bedroom, I search her drawers but find only torn T-shirts and wadded up lingerie. Drawers upon drawers of lingerie. Is this really her underwear? Or does she have more ordinary items stashed elsewhere? Should I be more like the real Evie? Should I work at looking sexy at night when no one, with the exception of Barclay on his bathroom treks through our hallway, would see?

  I look under the bed and find only cinder blocks and dust. The girl has few enough belongings. I compare this under-the-bed wasteland to my own space, which is stuffed with plastic bins holding quilts, extra linens, and out-of-season clothes.