Now You See Her

by Lisa Leighton

  Her eyes narrow as I approach. I realize my sister has never looked at me with such disgust. “Mae,” I whisper, waiting for recognition to soften her features. But she only breathes deeper and faster, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

  “Get away from me.” Her voice comes out a growl.

  I instinctively take a step back. I know if I look close enough I’ll see the sadness buried beneath her anger and it will break me.

  “Sophie,” Mr. Graham hisses as he grips my upper arm and yanks me back toward the wheelchair. I stumble a bit walking backward, my eyes never leaving my sister’s. But the musky scent of his deodorant brings with it a clash of muted sound and color as my father drags me away.

  I’m crying so hard it’s almost impossible to breathe. One hand is sticky with cotton candy, the other holds a plastic light-up toy. I’m pointing at a stuffed lion in a glass case, snot running from my nose to my lip, competing with the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “But I want the lion, Daddy. I. Want. The. Lion.”

  A strong arm drags me away, the same spiced-wood scent filling my nose. The same helpless anger. The same desperate want.

  “We don’t always get what we want, Sophie.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the barrage of color and sound and intersecting details colliding within Sophie’s skull. It’s too much.

  When I open them again, I’m back in the wheelchair and I can still feel Mae’s hard, angry eyes following my exit. There’s nothing I can say to make my sister smile or laugh or understand. It’s like that day at the fair, only now I need something much bigger, much more important, and completely impossible.

  Nine

  MR. GRAHAM WHEELS ME INTO THE HALLWAY UNTIL HE FINDS A quiet corner. His eyes dart around to make sure that there’s no one watching us, and then he bends down to my level, his face inches from my own. “Look at me.” I force myself to look at him so he doesn’t have to grab my chin, which I know with a sick certainty that he’s done before. His eyes bore into mine and I immediately look down, afraid that somehow he’ll see through Sophie’s face and recognize me for the broken imposter that I am.

  “What you did back there was completely inappropriate. This family is in pain and Amelia Fischer is fighting for her life. I’m not sure what’s come over you, but this has to stop. Now.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks and my eyes burn. I’m a mess. I need my mom, I need my sister. I want to run to them and explain everything. My throat aches and my lungs burn with the injustice of having them so close yet so completely inaccessible. This is what it must feel like to be trapped under ice with safety in sight but no way to break through to the other side. No way to reach dry land, no way to breathe.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice rings with truth. I am sorry. Sorry that my body is on life support. Sorry that my family is being torn apart. Sorry that I’ve somehow ended up in someone else’s life. Sorry that I might actually be losing my mind.

  Oh God, what if that’s it? What if this is just some kind of mental breakdown and I really am Sophie, but the accident has made me somehow feel like Amelia? What if I’ve completely lost myself and my sanity and I’ll never, ever find my way back?

  But then again, what if I’m not?

  Honestly, I’m not sure which is more terrifying.

  For one irrational minute I consider telling Mr. Graham that my sister is sitting in that waiting room, wearing one of my sweatshirts, the sleeves pulled over her hands. Would that be enough to break the spell? To set me free?

  Mr. Graham sighs and looks exhausted. He can’t hide it as well as Mrs. Graham. “I thought taking you to see that girl would give you some closure. Help you realize that none of this is your fault. But I see now that I was wrong.” Mr. Graham stands up and begins pushing me back toward my room. “I’ve already discussed it with your mother and if things don’t improve soon we’ll be forced to take serious measures. I’ve begun doing research on rehab facilities that specialize in this sort of thing.”

  God, if only he were right. If only there was a place that could fix me. Doctors that could send me back into my own body, awake and whole, place me right where I belong. But something tells me the kind of place he has in mind would be more likely to pump me full of sedatives and put me back to sleep until I forget Amelia Fischer ever existed.

  Mrs. Graham paces like a palace guard in the hallway outside my room. She looks from the wheelchair to her husband and back, sizing up the situation without asking a single question, forgetting in that moment to be perfect. But instead of an argument, she offers a smile and looks ten years younger again. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Graham and I say at the same time. He pats my shoulder and continues. “Hillary, you’d be proud of Sophie. You should have seen how composed she was visiting that poor girl and her mother. She’s definitely ready to get back home and into the swing of things.”

  It feels like mental whiplash. There isn’t a single grain of truth in Mr. Graham’s words and yet the lies roll off his tongue like gospel. And why lie about something like this? Isn’t this the kind of stuff that parents are supposed to share with each other? Aren’t these the kinds of problems that families solve together?

  Because even though my dad died when I was a baby and we never, ever talk about him or it or anything, we still address all of our other shit together, as a family. Typically over a carton of shared ice cream. Unfortunately, I don’t think this is an issue that a carton of mint chocolate chip can solve. And honestly, why lie? This was all my fault, so why pretend like everything went perfectly on our little field trip? Especially when Mrs. Graham didn’t want us to go in the first place. Why not force me to take some of the responsibility?

  Mrs. Graham purses her lips, and I can’t tell if she’s mad or worried about me leaving or maybe she can just tell that her husband is lying through his perfect teeth, but before I can figure it out, she forces her lips into a benign smile and says, “That poor, poor family. Her parents must be beside themselves.”

  I feel the stupid urge again to tell her that there is no such thing as parents-in-the-plural at the Fischer house, but it’s not worth it.

  “I’ll just go get my stuff together,” I say, but when I get to the bathroom, the space is cleared out.

  “Looks like Mom already gathered your things. Let’s go!” Mr. Graham claps his hands. And that’s that.

  We walk through the hospital slowly, our own twisted sort of parade. Mrs. Graham is waving to people as we pass and Mr. Graham is back to looking like the dad I always admired from afar. Somehow everything looks a little different up close, though, like I’m stuck in the center of a snow globe and instead of a tranquil, sparkling landscape, it’s all swirling chaos and violent undertows.

  As we get into the car, Mrs. Graham twists around in her seat, worry etching lines into her smooth skin. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to going home?”

  “She’s fine,” Mr. Graham says before my brain has even started to form a response. “Aren’t you, Bumblebee?”

  Mr. Graham peers at me through the rearview mirror and I’m not sure there’s anything left to do but agree. “Uh, yeah. Of course. I’m fine.”

  But I’m not fine. I’m terrified. I’m leaving the hospital in someone else’s body, living someone else’s life. I used to have this recurring dream where I wasn’t able to see. I’ve never needed glasses, I’ve always had twenty-twenty vision, so I’d inevitably wake up in a cold sweat after watching the world pass me by in lumps and colored blobs, blindly grabbing for glasses that were never there.

  That’s what this feels like. The real Mr. Graham isn’t anything like the jovial person he seemed from far away, and something in Mrs. Graham’s sagging posture in the front seat oddly reminds me of my mother.

  Although their car looks perfect from the outside, all chrome and luxury, the reality of the car is hellish. The leather seats are hot and sticky and there’s a weird smell, like something is rotting in the trunk. My st
omach heaves when the car lurches into gear, and I scramble to lower the window.

  As we pull out of the parking lot, I catch the eye of a girl waiting at the bus stop just outside the hospital. She stares in blatant admiration of the pretty people in the expensive car. I sense her jealousy and remember how easy this all looked to me as an outsider. One big, happy family; wide smiles on pretty faces.

  That girl at the bus stop has no idea that the beautiful raven-haired girl sitting in the back seat is quietly losing her mind. She’ll never know and I can’t tell, so there’s nothing left for me to do except buckle my seat belt and go along for the ride.

  Ten

  I’M NOT SURE IF IT’S THE CAR, THE PASSENGERS, OR THESE UNFAMILIAR eyes, but as soon as we drive into Morristown, everything looks different. We pass the bridal boutique on Main Street and I remember twirling on a platform in front of angled mirrors, a tiny ballerina in a music box. As we turn the corner onto First, I remember the creamy taste of vanilla ice cream at Mia Moo’s, but could swear I love chocolate. And when I see the sign for Kate’s Corner Bookstore, I remember the way it feels to run my fingers down the spines of the newly stocked hardcovers. I’m pretty sure that last memory is mine. Or did Sophie lean her back against the farthest shelf to read away afternoons too?

  The rows of historic homes are somehow even more charming through this car window. I wonder if our dilapidated farmhouse would look any different. Doubtful. It needs to be painted in the worst way, but suddenly I can’t remember what color.

  I picture the synapses and connections in Sophie’s brain flashing and linking with every passing moment. I picture pieces of me, Amelia, mixing with Sophie like cream into coffee, swirling and separate and then together. Changed. Now you see her. Now you don’t.

  Mr. Graham takes a left into Kensington Estates, the most exclusive neighborhood in Morristown, and I’m not surprised at all. I can’t be sure whether I knew Sophie lived back here or if I know because I’m currently occupying her body, and the uncertainty makes me a little sweaty. Most of the homes are gated and set so far back they’re hard to see. All were built to resemble the historic homes in town. The architect was even featured in some design magazine. The houses in this neighborhood are the best of both worlds. They look like oversized Victorians or sprawling Tudors, but the floors don’t creak and the moldings are freshly painted and smooth. History is highly overrated, particularly when its roof is leaking.

  Mr. Graham pulls into an enormous garage and I linger, trying to remember Morristown as I know it. Digging for treasures in Hattie’s Consignment, the green velvet chair in Angela’s Tea Room, the upstairs, far-right corner of the library where it feels like I’m the only person left on the planet. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold the details close, somehow lock them into place. I stay there for a minute, too terrified to open the car door because I can’t help but worry that the more I smell and see and feel of Sophie’s world, the more diluted I’ll become.

  “Sophie?” Mrs. Graham’s eyes are worried, but Mr. Graham has already disappeared inside the house.

  “I’m coming.” I get out of the car because there’s nowhere else to go.

  When I walk through the door into Sophie’s home, instead of the barrage of recognition I expected I don’t feel a thing. Balloons, plants, flowers, cards, stuffed animals, and other random Get Well paraphernalia overwhelm the gigantic mudroom. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Some monster tried to kidnap me, I was run over by a car that cost more than five years’ rent and am currently fighting for my life in the ICU. Pretty sure I don’t even have a wilted bunch of carnations waiting for me at home. We moved so much that I got tired of having to say good-bye, so I stopped making friends, and by the time I figured out that we might stay in Morristown long enough for me to actually have real friends, I’d forgotten how to make them. Turns out I was pretty good at the whole sarcastic-loner thing.

  Mrs. Graham sees me eying the gifts. “The entire butler’s pantry is full as well. I’ve already put Zach’s beside your bed. They’re just stunning. Don’t worry . . . I didn’t open the note.” Her face is flushed with pleasure and she gives me a little wink. “Plus, Daddy hasn’t even emptied the trunk yet. You are loved, sweet girl.”

  Can anyone really be loved this much? This feels like a classic case of quantity over quality. Unless it’s different for Sophie. Unless she truly is adored by fifty of her closest friends and relatives. Based on Mrs. Graham’s watery eyes and over-bright smile I can tell she needs this; she feeds on having a butler’s pantry full of proof that her daughter is important and beloved. Maybe it makes her feel important and beloved too.

  The doorbell rings in the distance and I’m thankful for the distraction. All these flowers smell like a funeral home. Way too close to home for me. I wind toward what I hope is the front door and figure when I don’t recognize the person on the other side I can just blame the accident.

  “Oh, honey, are you sure you’re up to it?” Mrs. Graham’s worried voice trails after me. But now that I’m actually out of that hospital bed, I’m feeling pretty good. A little sore, but the kind of soreness you get after a tough tennis match. Plus, I need to get this woman off my back if I ever want to go home.

  “Positive.” I try to put a little pep in my step because Sophie strikes me as one of those obnoxious, naturally bouncy people. That seems to work because Mrs. Graham hangs back.

  On my way down the hall, I marvel at the sheer number of family photographs that line the wall and compete for space on every available flat surface in the Graham house. There are photos of an elaborate wedding. Photos of Mrs. Graham pregnant, delicate fingers cradling a tiny bump. Photos of Mr. Graham holding Sophie’s hand on her first day of kindergarten. Grandparents, dogs, sun-kissed children lumped together on the beach, forced smiles under the gazebo on the green.

  It’s fascinating to glimpse the evolution of a family. Mr. and Mrs. Graham are standing in that gazebo with his hands on her pregnant belly and then all of a sudden he’s holding a bundled baby and then the hand of a toddler. Sophie’s body might grow but there’s the shadow of that baby in her face, different and yet all the same. It’s abundantly clear where Sophie gets her obsessive Instagram habit. I guess maybe if my mom had that many pictures of me all over our house, I might think everyone was interested in knowing what I ate for dinner, too.

  Until this moment it never really occurred to me how strange it is that we don’t have any real family photographs around our house. When you move around as much as we do, it doesn’t make sense to make friends or put holes in walls when you’ll just have to fill them in a few months anyway. We are professional movers, can fit a house into suitcases. This doesn’t leave room for a lot of extras.

  The only decorative item we own is our house angel, a tiny porcelain house that my mom always said made every new place a real home because it was magic. It was the best game for Mae and me growing up. The morning we woke up in another new, strange, shabby-looking rental, we’d search for the small painted house our mom would hide somewhere in the new space. It would distract us from yet another move. It seems ridiculous now, but it was enough then.

  Seeing this house, these pictures, makes my old house feel empty. It never felt that way before. Where are the snapshots documenting our first steps? The obligatory first-day-of-school pictures? Mae and me growing increasingly awkward as the years go by? I try to visualize the walls in our house, the stairwell or entryway, the mantle. Surely we must have had some toothy baby pictures or a faded snapshot of us in those dopey matching overalls I vaguely remember wearing, but I can’t think of any. Are my memories being replaced by Sophie’s, or is it possible that we never had any pictures? Somehow neither rings true.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “Got it!” I call, tugging myself away from the smiles. I pull open the heavy door at the same time as the doorbell ringer has turned to go and am met with the fairly impressive backside of the tallest guy I’ve ever seen. Granted, I’
m now roughly the size of a six-year-old, but still. The back of his hair flips up a little at the ends, in desperate need of a cut, and he’s wearing jeans even though it’s pushing eighty degrees outside. He’s wearing a vintage T-shirt that’s so thin, a hole is starting at the seam. In a matter of seconds, I’ve expertly sized him up, which feels much more Sophie than Amelia. I try to access some part of Sophie’s brain to place him, but if it were that easy, I wouldn’t have taken the scenic route to the front door.

  He turns around, probably because he can feel the heat of Sophie’s gaze on his ass.

  “It’s you,” I whisper before I remember not to.

  And it’s him. The boy from the tennis courts.

  “Oh, hey?” he responds. It doesn’t take more than those two little words to tell me he doesn’t want to be here. “My mom baked these for you. She wasn’t sure if you were back yet.” He offers the basket, lifting a corner of the towel to reveal the most perfect scones I’ve ever seen. They smell like heaven. But there’s something else there too. Something that gives me that tight, butterfly feeling I wish I could stretch away. Something that feels a little like shame.

  You can practically taste the warm air, that’s how incredible it smells in this perfectly cramped kitchen. I’m so hungry. My mom never lets me have anything that smells like this. If I go up onto my tiptoes I can just barely reach the top of the counter. I grab blindly, groping for the source of that amazing scent. My fingers land on something so hot that I almost surrender. Instead, I stuff the lump into my mouth without a second thought. Flakey, buttery pastry practically melts on my tongue. It’s even better than I imagined. And then I hear laughter and his singsongy voice. “Sophie stole a scone! Sophie stole a scone!”

  I know him now. His name is Landon Crane. He’s a neighbor. He’s the photographer for the school paper. There’s a history there I can’t quite reach, but it’s clear Sophie doesn’t get his dry sense of humor and punishes him for it. Naturally. My curiosity collides with Sophie’s distaste, and I jerk backward, almost dropping the basket of scones all over the ground because now when I look at him, my stomach pulls. He’s less golden and there’s nothing I can do about it.