Walk-in

by T. L. Hart

  I laughed. She smiled back. Progress.

  “Longhorn cattle are already taken,” she mused. “What the heck—since you already have a place for them, maybe we should stick to women and children.”

  “We? Do I dare to hope you’ve changed your mind?”

  “Why don’t I put together a couple of ideas and we can go over your budget. What kind of event do you have in mind? A-listers or general public?” She was already into the project. Typical Jo. Once she set her sights on something she was tenacious. “Any time frame you’re locked into?”

  “No time frame. No budget cap. I’m open to any fabulous idea you have to pitch me.”

  “You may be the easiest client I’ve had in a long time.”

  “No doubt about it. Easy is my middle name.”

  “Nice to know.” Jo laughed. What a sound. My legs turned to jelly. “I have a tendency to get carried away. I should warn you, I’ve been known to go a little over the top.”

  “As long as there are no clowns or elephant rides, I think I can handle a few surprises. I like surprises as long as I don’t know they’re coming. Then they make me crazy.”

  “That’s spooky. That’s exactly what my friend Cotton used to say about surprises.”

  “Lots of people feel that way, I’m sure.”

  “I guess.” She stood up, indicating very discreetly that our time was about over. “There is something about you I can’t quite get my head around, J.C. You are a mystery, aren’t you?”

  “Especially to myself.” I followed her lead and stood too. As she passed me, I caught a whiff of her cologne. “Coco. You still wear Coco.”

  “Still?” Suspicion was on the rise again. “How do you know I’ve always worn this scent?”

  “It’s unusual. I meant I didn’t know they still made it.” Lame excuse, even to my own ears.

  “I don’t believe you.” She opened the door and we walked out into the hallway. “You act as if you know me. You know my cologne. Something is too creepy here. Awfully strange.”

  “I never said I wasn’t strange. I’m not dangerous though.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  We were beside the carousel horse and I reached over and rubbed his nose for luck, like I’d done so many times in passing.

  “Happy trails, Pal.”

  I didn’t know I’d said the words aloud, until she clutched the fabric of my jacket collar and yanked me around.

  “Stop right there.” She was frightened. I could see it in her eyes and feel it in the tremor of the hand still on my shoulder. “Nobody ever said that but Cotton. No one knows his name but us.”

  “Ssh,” I soothed. “I know Jo. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Who are you?” She pushed me away and stepped back, holding her hand up like a traffic cop when I moved in her direction. “Who are you?”

  “If you listen to me, I’ll explain—”

  “No. I want you to get out of here.”

  “Jo. Let me explain.”

  “No. This is crazy—some kind of con job, isn’t it?”

  “I thought I was crazy too,” I said urgently. “But if you will listen to me—”

  “You are crazy. Get out.” Her voice was edging toward hysteria. “Get the hell out of here, right now!”

  The girl who showed me in stepped into the hall, looking concerned.

  “Is everything okay, Jo?”

  “It’s fine, Sherry. Ms. Winters will be leaving now.” Under her breath, Jo hissed, “Get out now or I’ll have her call the cops.”

  “I’ll go. Please think about letting me explain.”

  “Go.” She looked terrified and angry.

  “Let me try to explain, please,” I begged.

  “No, just get out of here.” Anger edged terror into second place. “And keep your hands off my horse.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I spent a long chunk of sleepless night kicking myself for being a total screw-up. What was I thinking?

  Just because I finally knew who I was didn’t mean I could go around expecting to be recognized and welcomed back with open arms. That whole prodigal son story probably wouldn’t have worked so well if he had been coming back from the dead instead of just out sowing a few wild oats in Nazareth or Samaria or somewhere.

  After my big memory breakthrough with Jo, I should have been sitting on top of the world. Instead I was more afraid and confused than ever. How the hell was that even possible? Could I ever trust anyone enough to tell them what I believed had happened? What if no one ever believed I was really back? What if Aggie and Jo wrote me off as some spooky weirdo and moved on?

  My head was a mess—inside and out, backward and forward, on this plane or in some other foggy dimension. Overload. I did what I always did when my brain turned to blueberry jam. I called Dr. Carey. I don’t know if it was my unique situation or a last-minute cancellation, but I got an immediate session with her and Andrew.

  Andrew was dressed as if he were on his way to a hospital board meeting, all spiffed up in a suit and power tie—what Saint Nick would wear to a meeting with The Donald. Dr. Carey was surprisingly a bit of a mess—in the nicest sense of the word.

  Her auburn hair was down around her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing any makeup except for a token swipe of lipstick. Instead of her usual polished professional attire, she had on jeans and a gauzy print shirt. I was surprised, but not complaining. She looked kinda hot. I think Andrew must have been thinking the same thing because we were both content to sit and stare. The way we both loved to talk, our silence spoke volumes.

  “If the two of you have had a good enough look, can we get on with the session?” She sounded all business, but she was smiling as if she enjoyed the attention. “I do have a life outside these walls, you know.”

  I honestly had never given the idea any thought. Dr. Carey was always in her office in my thoughts. Like my third grade teacher was always in school writing on the chalkboard.

  I had a flash of a memory of Mrs. Todd, with her black bun and cats-eye glasses, hugging us goodbye the final day of school. I had held on to her and cried. When she asked what was wrong, I said I was sorry we were going to be home all summer and she’d be alone until school started. She laughed and said she was going to Mexico with her husband and children, not to worry.

  It had been a revelation, not an entirely welcome one. The world didn’t revolve around me. People had lives that didn’t include me. The price of tea in China wasn’t dependent on me. What a concept.

  “I remember that my third grade teacher was Mrs. Todd,” I said. When they both looked at me as if expecting more, I went on. “I remember everything.”

  “Hmmm.” Andrew smiled, but he looked a little doubtful. “I’m impressed. I couldn’t recall where I parked my car yesterday and you remember everything.”

  “Not that kind of everything. I remember everything from when I was Cotton.” I was excited and trying to explain the magnitude of my recovery. “I know Aggie and I know Jo and I know what I got Jo for her birthday. And when I saw the carousel horse—”

  “Slow down,” Dr. Carey said, shooting a look-what-you’ve-done-now glance in Andrew’s direction. She didn’t seem happy with my progress. “Take it easy. We’ll listen.”

  “And I remember I like pumpernickel bagels. And I’m allergic to shellfish. I remember it all.”

  “When did your recollections start coming back in such detail?” Dr. Carey asked. “And how and when did you find Jo?”

  “Let me tell you what’s happened.”

  They listened. They nodded. Occasionally Dr. Carey looked up from her yellow notepad to interject or clarify a point. Andrew never said a word. That worried me. Maybe it was only my perception, but from day one I always felt that he was on my side. He had defended my sanity and pointed me in the right direction to reclaim my life. Today he seemed distant and not altogether happy for me.

  “Andrew, aren’t you excited?” I called him on it. “I have my memory back. I
t’s only a matter of time until everything is back to normal.”

  “I’m very encouraged, J.C. You’ve had a major breakthrough.” He unbuttoned his jacket, freeing his belly from the Italian silk prison of his suit. “However, it might be wise to slow down a bit and give yourself a chance to get back into the flow of traffic gradually.”

  “I don’t want to slow down,” I snapped. “I’ve been living in the slow lane for months now. What I want is to step on the gas and get where I’m headed faster. I am damned tired of caution flags and detours.”

  “Of course you are. You’d have to be, J.C.,” he said. “You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t frustrated. You need to understand that we want that for you very much.”

  Andrew was quietly encouraging, as usual, but not afraid to give his opinion, also as usual. Not that he could just give his opinion. Way too easy. Better to lead me to his lair after a round of sneaky questioning.

  “What makes you think you remember everything?”

  “Because I remember it. Who would know better than I do?”

  “What if you only think you know everything? If you don’t remember it, how do you know?” he asked. “Would it be so terrible to find you have things yet to discover?”

  “Not terrible no. But I felt it all come back to me in a rush.” I was convinced. “It was wonderful to be back in control.”

  “Aaah control. Now we’re getting somewhere.” He nodded sagely, making me fantasize about punching him in the stomach, burying my fist in his fat, jiggly paunch. “What were your parents’ names, Cotton?”

  “John Claymore and Charlotte Bailey,” I answered without hesitation. “He was a professor of history and my mother was an attorney.” I volunteered the information, proud of knowing who they were, what they did.

  “Where did you go to college?” he asked.

  “Southern Methodist.” I said, happy to show my knowledge. “Go Mustangs!”

  “Where do you live? Your address?”

  “I live in an apartment on Turtle Creek.”

  “No, J.C. Winters lives in an apartment on Turtle Creek. Where does Cotton live?”

  I had no answer. There was a total blank spot.

  “What kind of car do you drive?” He fired the questions, one after the other. “Tell me your driver’s license number? Your phone number?”

  Nothing. No idea. Less than no idea. I stopped trying to answer, wishing he would stop talking. Then he did, and I felt the walls closing in on me.

  Dr. Carey intervened.

  “That’s enough, Andrew. Let her catch her breath.” She put down her notebook and gave him a meaningful glare. “J.C.—Cotton,” she corrected. I looked up to see her smiling at me. It was the first time she had called me Cotton and it steadied my wobbly world. “Don’t worry about remembering every detail of your life. We all have things that we forget—sometimes that’s a good thing. Protective. Everything important will come back in time. Don’t be so worried that the pieces don’t all fit at once.”

  “Do you think they will eventually fit together, Dr. Carey?” I felt lost again, two steps forward, one step back. “What if I’m like Humpty Dumpty?”

  “Things are going to work out,” she said, sounding more optimistic than I was used to her being. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men are fine, but I think you have a better chance with me and Andrew. Humpty Dumpty never had the advantage of a couple of great therapists.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fairy tales are an excellent analogy for my life. This is not so comforting as it sounds. Oh, I know they all start out “once upon a time” and end up “happily ever after,” but some pretty horrible stuff happens in between in a lot of those stories. Curses, spells, ogres, wicked witches, poisoned apples—not a few of my favorite things. Of course, being beaten to death and coming back in another person’s body did have a certain macabre twist that might have interested the Brothers Grimm.

  I was having enough trouble with my own cast of characters without trying to keep up with the three little pigs. I didn’t know any magic words that would change straw into gold or make Aggie and Jo recognize me again.

  I don’t think I would have believed Jo was back if the circumstances had been reversed. I’m not a very spiritual person even now. The whole idea of souls flitting around without bodies and coming and going and all that misty-moisty stuff still seemed like superstitious claptrap. Stuff they make spooky movies out of, not the kind of thing modern, educated people could give credence to.

  The only problem was, here I am—a modern, educated woman—walking around in a loaner body without a clue of how I got here. Kinda hard to argue with that.

  I couldn’t get Jo to return my phone calls. She was probably considering a restraining order. I’d left about five messages on her voice mail, trying to get her to give me a chance to explain. I was kind of vague about what I was talking about, not sure if competency hearings might be able to use the recordings against me if anyone decided to put me in a rubber room. Instead I begged her to listen, to consider that there were things in the universe we couldn’t always understand. Sounded nuts even to me.

  When her call came a couple of days later, I was more than a little shocked. It was a strange message, but one that gave me hope.

  “J.C. Winters or whoever you really are, this is Jo Keesling.”

  As if I didn’t know. I held my breath.

  “I don’t know what to think. You freaked me out. I talked to Aggie Burke about you yesterday, and I ended up more confused than ever. Then I had the strangest dream about you last night. You and Cotton. If you know where to go, meet me at three today in the first place Cotton and I went out together. If you’re there, I’ll know…If I don’t see you there, I’ll know…Oh, I don’t know what I mean. I’m starting to think I may be crazier than you are.”

  Click.

  I threw on my clothes. Okay—after I picked out something that made me look incredibly hot—I threw on some clothes and headed for the Outreach. Aggie had talked to Jo about me. I wanted to get some idea of what she had asked. I wanted to know what she said about me.

  Aggie was sitting at her desk doing paperwork, a most unusual sight, as I walked in the front door. Now that I was back in charge of my brain—of Jennifer’s brain—I remembered that Aggie was legally the head honcho. For all her shooting hoops and hanging around the gym, Aggie was responsible for operations and had never mentioned it to me. Of course, there was no earthly reason she should have bothered to tell a lowly volunteer the details of the business.

  Just how Aggie got control of everything wasn’t something I could ask her without sounding nosy or strange. The Outreach had been Cotton Claymore’s main public project. Although I don’t know how or why it was my life’s work, I wanted it to stay strong and independent. I keep forgetting that I—Jennifer Strickland/J.C. Winters—am only a volunteer around here.

  I keep forgetting I’m dead, if you want to get picky about little things like that.

  “Aggie, have you got a few minutes to talk to me?”

  “Talk to you?” Aggie sounded mad. “And who are you today? A volunteer? A psychic? A fucking ghost? Just who am I talking to?”

  “Somewhere private please?” There were several other people at desks in their cubicles across the room. The last thing I wanted was to provide entertainment and food for gossip for the whole staff. “How about the gym?”

  “How about wherever I want?” Aggie snarled at me. “Outside.”

  I followed meekly as she strode from the building, halfway jogging to keep up with her as she kept going for a block, staying a few steps behind to keep from getting lashed by one of her long braids, which were whipping the air as she went loping along. Mad was understating the case. She was pissed, royally pissed. And I was the cause. Not an entirely comfortable feeling.

  “Okay.” She wheeled to a stop and faced me, looking for all the world as if she were guarding her team’s basket during the playoffs. “Talk.” />
  I moved very slowly, hands up, palms open in the universal symbol for I come as friend, unarmed, please don’t kick my ass. I’d seen her leave strapping six-footers sitting on their rear ends when they tried to make a move on her territory. She looked at me as if it could still go either way.

  “Aggie, I got a message from Jo this morning. She said she talked to you. What did she say? How did she sound?”

  “How do you think she sounded, you stupid idiot? She was a mess, askin’ me about you, wanting me to make sense of this mess for her.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That you were a Grade A nut job, that’s what I told her.” Aggie stepped back and looked at me, shaking her head as if she’d never seen me before. “Nah, that’s what I should have told her. I told her I didn’t know what was goin’ on.” She shrugged. “This is some strange shit. She said she thinks you are Cotton.”

  “And you? Do think I’m Cotton?”

  “How is that possible, girl?” Aggie was angry, lashing out at me like it was my fault the world was wobbly. “You’re an uptown white chick with a lot of money who came slummin’ down here to help the disadvantaged. That’s who you are—that works for me. Then, you start bein’ all weird, sayin’ stuff, knowin’ stuff, feelin’ like my old friend.”

  “I am your friend, Ag. I swear I am.”

  “Nah, look at you.” Aggie pushed me with the flat of one big hand, nearly knocking me off my feet. “Don’t you know I saw Cotton dead, held her body. I saw her beaten to where her own mama wouldn’t know her. Now you show up talkin’ like her. How am I supposed to think it’s you when I’m looking’ at…you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened.” My voice was ragged. “What do you think it feels like for me? I thought I had lost my mind. Now I get a second chance and my best friend and my girl treat me like a mud sandwich. Instead of hoping it’s true, you act like I’m doing this just to screw with you.”

  The more I talked the madder I got. Evidently there was no universal law preventing me from being here. Maybe there was even some cosmic reason it was supposed to happen. Hell, I don’t know. Whatever. Who were these two to make me come crawling, explaining, begging them to take me back?