Now You See Her

by Lisa Leighton

  I shake my head. This can’t be happening. It’s too much. None of it makes sense. “So, I got in an accident, I hit my head and woke up as Amelia?” I realize I’m whispering now, because how could those words ever be truly spoken aloud?

  “I think so.” There’s a note of awe in Janie’s voice. “I mean, how else could you have known this stuff? I read it like a million times and it doesn’t even sound like you, Soph. You were different. I can’t even explain it, but I think it’s true.”

  Am I losing my mind? Is this all some sort of weird hallucination caused by too much stress and too many hits to the head?

  But somehow the notebook between my fingers feels like a lifeline. I sink back to the floor and run my fingers over the words, letting color spread to all the white space in my memory. There’s the date of the accident, September 19, and I hear pounding rain, feel a hand around my arm, the palpable threat. It’s fuzzy and distorted and feels so completely wrong.

  There are observations about my life, secrets on the page written out in my perfect script.

  Birth control hidden in doll. Respect. Also, not taking them.

  Sorry?

  Sophie cheating on Zach with JAKE.

  And then, in the middle of a crowded page:

  Mrs. Graham=DOCTOR Graham. Mr. Graham NOT HER DAD????

  Wait, what? I have to read it again because it can’t possibly be true. My father can be distant and awkward, but he’s definitely my father. And my mother a doctor? There’s absolutely no way. If any of this were true it would mean that my entire life is a lie. These are the ramblings of a crazy person, not facts.

  But then the notebook is filled with truths that only I would know and observations about my life that I’ve always taken for granted. The stilted relationship between my parents, saying good-bye to Grandma Hazel, spin the bottle in Landon’s backyard, meeting him for the first time. It’s all there and it all somehow adds up to someone who looks like me but doesn’t quite feel like me. It’s like seeing my life in a fun-house mirror—I know it’s mine, but it looks twisted and wrong from this perspective.

  And when I read the words again and again and again, the shock of them starts to wear off and I see a strange truth between the lines. My father is so demanding and oddly critical of me. And the dynamic between my parents is off—my mother always seems to be trying to make everything perfect for him, for us. And she is kind of a whiz with medical stuff. I remember her grilling my doctors about tests and treatment options and the pros and cons of surgery when I had to have my tonsils out, if I skinned my knee, twisted my ankle. I guess I never really considered it odd that she used a flashlight to look down my throat if it was sore, that she never panicked if I had a fever. I thought all mothers behaved that way. Suddenly the notebook doesn’t seem so crazy.

  And then there are the names. Jenna Elizabeth Dowling. Haylee Morgan Dowling. April Nicole Dowling. Dr. Edward Dowling.

  Amelia Fischer jumps off the page of the notebook and the reality of what has happened to her, to us, hits me in a way I can’t possibly begin to explain or understand. But I can’t deny the collision.

  I look back down to the notebook in my lap. Her mom was lying to her all these years, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, moving them around, running from the police. And now it’s finally caught up with her. Dr. Dowling came back for his girls and it’s my job to reunite them. Maybe that’s why all this happened.

  But if I’m here—back in my life, in my body—does that mean Amelia is back in hers? Stuck in a coma with no way out? Is that where I spent the time that she was me? I have so many impossible questions and no answers. The words are noise, screeching and ugly, and I press my fingers to my ears to block it out.

  “Sophie? Sophie?” Janie’s voice softens the cacophony until it’s nothing more than a dull hum. “I shouldn’t have given you this. It was a bad idea.” Her face comes into focus. She’s red-cheeked and glassy-eyed, as though she might burst into tears.

  I need to pull it together.

  “No. No. I’m fine.” I clutch the notebook to my chest. “I just need some air. Can you open the window?”

  She rushes to a window and pushes up dutifully. I breathe in the fresh air and try to wrap my brain around where to go from here. Janie sits next to me on the edge of the bed.

  “What now?” she asks.

  “We have to save them.” The moment I say the words, I know that’s exactly what I need to do.

  If only I knew how.

  Thirty-Nine

  THE SHADOWY MEMORIES BEGIN TO CRYSTALIZE IN MY BRAIN. I WAS Amelia Fischer. We shared a respirator, IVs, a hospital bed. I heard her mother’s whispered pleas for forgiveness. I felt her father’s hand on her forehead while he talked endlessly about his lost girls and St. Anthony, who had finally helped him find them.

  I was Amelia Fischer. And now we share an unspoken promise to finish what she started.

  “How could it possibly be true?” I ask, looking to Janie, grateful that she’s here, a witness. I never could have absorbed this information alone without breaking down completely.

  “I don’t know. But there’s no way you could have written some of the stuff that’s in that notebook and I’m honestly not sure there’s any other explanation.”

  “But why?” I guess that’s the other thing bugging me. If I’m actually going to accept the fact that I switched bodies with Amelia Fischer, I need to understand why it happened. Yes, there was the accident and maybe some weird psychic energy transported us. But there has to be a reason.

  “Well, you were both born in Baltimore, at the same hospital, it looks like. Maybe there’s something there.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but our birthdays are like months apart. I just feel like there has to be some other reason. Something important.”

  Janie and I both jump up when we hear the clinks of pebbles against my window. When we get to the window, we see Landon Crane at the bottom, cheeks flushed, pacing.

  We watch as he climbs the emergency rope ladder I have hanging off the side of my fake balcony. In fourth grade we had an assembly about fire safety and I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I was afraid my fan would fall and start a fire or the furnace would explode or lightning would strike our house. My mom bought rope ladders for every room when I started having recurring nightmares about our house catching on fire. Unfortunately, ladders can’t cure anxiety, but Lexapro can and did. Thank God. Once upon a time, Landon used the ladder almost every night so we could read comic books together under a blanket with flashlights, but now it’s almost exclusively used by Jake. Jake. My stomach twists a little as I remember the way he avoided my eyes at school this morning and I’m pretty sure there’s more to the story than what Amelia wrote down in the notebook.

  And now Landon Crane, the human barnacle who refused to believe our childhood friendship couldn’t survive middle school, is climbing into my bedroom just like he used to in fifth grade. My head might seriously explode.

  “Oh look, the gang’s all here,” he says, folding his long body in half to climb through the open window. Janie and I roll our eyes in unison.

  “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday,” I begin. “I know things have been different since the accident, and I can’t pretend to know exactly what’s going on, but I need your help . . . still,” I add, thinking about the journal and how much Landon has been involved. “I mean, Amelia needs our help.”

  He looks away. “Okay, whatever. I want to help her too. That’s why I think we need to call the police and I just thought . . .” His voice trails off and for one horrible moment, I’m sure he’s going to profess his love for me. And if he goes there, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.

  Janie must sense impending disaster, because she cuts in.

  “Before we go to the police, we have to tell Mae. At least then she’ll be prepared for what’s next.”

  Landon gives me a long look and finally nods. “I guess I can live with that. I also found out a bunch of stuff about Ameli
a’s dad, Edward Dowling. He’s a doctor. In Baltimore. But it looks like he’s been doing some mentoring at Marymount over the past month or so.”

  “Wait, so he’s been working here? At the hospital?” I think about the whispers I keep remembering and the shadow man Amelia wrote about.

  “Yeah, he’s a pretty well-known general surgeon, based on a couple of Google searches.”

  “Honestly, I’m shocked he hasn’t gone to the police. Why all of this stalking?” I flip through the papers, looking for something that might explain his motives.

  “Well, you said that you saw someone try to take Amelia, right? Maybe it was him.”

  Right. Where would we possibly be without the powers of Detective Landon’s deductive reasoning? “Of course it was him,” I say. Jackass, I think. “The question is why?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to deal with the police until he knew for sure it was them?” Janie says.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Whatever his reasons, we have to get to Mae. She deserves to know the truth before her life gets turned upside down. Amelia would want it that way.”

  Landon gives me a strange look and I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy, but I’m equally certain that I’m past the point of caring. I just want to make good on my promise.

  “Now I need to figure out how to get to Mae.” Based on the fact that I’ve apparently been stalking these people, I’m fairly confident they have a restraining order out against me. “I could go back to their house?” It’s the best I can do.

  “I don’t know. Given what we overheard yesterday, it sounds like Amelia isn’t doing well. I think the hospital might be our best bet.”

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea . . . ?” Landon’s voice trails off.

  “I’m open to suggestions, but it doesn’t sound like you’re willing to give any. Also, you need to leave. My mom will freak if she finds you here and then I’ll be right back to square one.” The hurt look on Landon’s face reminds me of that horrible game of spin the bottle and the sick feeling of regret I tried to ignore after completely ditching him. I mean, it doesn’t make sense at all for us to be friends; we move in different circles and we have absolutely nothing in common. “Thanks for all your help,” I say to try to soften the blow, but he just rolls his eyes.

  Well, at least I tried.

  Landon Crane is the least of my worries right now. He can’t possibly understand why this is all so important. If I finish what she started, Amelia Fischer might finally wake up.

  Forty

  I THROW MY BOOK BAG ONTO THE EMPTY SEAT BESIDE ME, NOTEBOOK safely tucked inside. My seat rises and shifts forward until it clicks into the perfect position after I press start. The car is oddly silent and I really don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now. I’m afraid they’ll make me lose my nerve. I press a button on my steering wheel and close my eyes for a second as the car floods with screaming guitars and shrieking voices, the only sounds that are ever loud enough to drown out all the self-doubt in my brain.

  “Sophie? Where do you think you’re going?” My eyes snap open and I see my mother sliding into the passenger seat, looking seriously annoyed and stabbing at random buttons on the car radio to make the music stop.

  For once, I say the first thing that pops into my brain. “Who is my real father?” It’s a dirty way to fight, but I don’t have a lot of time. I had the bomb. I dropped it. There are worse things.

  Her face goes completely white. “What? Sophie, I’m not sure why you think that, but . . .”

  “Save it. I saw the test results. Does Dad even know?”

  Her face collapses in defeat. “I . . . well, yes. He found out eventually. It was your eyes, really. You got them from your birth father.”

  She grabs my hands and pushes my hair out of my face.

  “Is that what this is all about? Don’t run away from me, Sophie. Let’s sit down and talk. People make mistakes. I can explain. . . .”

  I think of Zach and Jake and Landon and Amelia and a whole lifetime of mistakes. I’ve done so many things that I’m not proud of and I’m not even eighteen.

  “I’m not going to be able to make you understand what I need to do right now, but I’m doing it. With or without your permission.” In a weird way this feels like the first adult decision I’ve ever made. “Who was he?”

  The words are out before I can stop myself from asking. My father is not my father and I know we can’t really talk about it. Not now. But I still have to ask.

  “No. Not until you’re ready to really talk about this. Like adults.” And then she reaches across the console and wraps her arms around me. “You underestimate me, Sophie. Go and do what you need to do. But come back home. Come back home and we’ll talk.”

  I think back to what she said about mistakes and being old enough to make them. I’ve made mistakes. Lots of them. But maybe I can change. Maybe I’m different now. Maybe we all are.

  “Okay,” I whisper, leaning over to kiss my mother on the cheek. I catch a wave of her delicate perfume, the way it mixes with her tropical-smelling lotion. She makes me feel like it will be okay. And even if it’s not, she makes me feel like it could be.

  After I park my car in the visitors’ lot of the hospital, I’m running with the notebook clutched to my chest. I don’t have time to answer any more questions or use my manners or even stop and think.

  Once I’m in the hospital, I focus on looking like I know exactly what I’m doing. I make my way up to the ICU where we saw the doctors talking yesterday, and I stop to take a long drink from the water fountain, praying that someone will come so I can get through the doors. Finally, a nurse walks up and uses her badge to open the doors, and I walk on through right behind her. It’s a little disappointing how easy it is, but I shake my head to clear it. Don’t be stupid. I’m in.

  I’ve been here before, or part of me has, anyway. I’m struck by a whisper of déjà vu that under any other circumstances would have made me find the nearest chair to catch my breath. I’ve walked these tile floors, I’ve heard the hum and beep of these machines, the low murmur of voices at the desk. I know exactly where to go. The curtain to Amelia’s section of the room is closed. Before I can stop myself, I pull back the fabric with authority and see exactly who I came to find. Mae is standing beside Amelia’s bed, her eyes wide and confused.

  And he’s standing next to Mae, between his two daughters. I recognize him immediately somehow. Dr. Edward Dowling. His eyes flash to mine, angry at the interruption. I hold my breath because something is familiar about him, that weird tickle where it feels like you’ve met someone but you just can’t place them. I know him. I must know him. But then I make the connection.

  I don’t know him. I know his eyes.

  Even in the dim light, I notice that they’re two different colors. One blue. One green. Just like mine.

  Forty-One

  WHEN I WAS LITTLE I HATED MY MISMATCHED EYES. STRANGERS were always commenting on them and my mom was constantly flustered by their questions about whether they ran in our family. But as I got older I started to enjoy the attention around my eyes. They were so distinct, so me. And I guess somewhere along the way, I got used to them. Honestly I forget all about them until someone inevitably comments on their color.

  But in all these years, I’ve never seen two different-colored eyes on another person. Seeing my identical eyes reflected back to me on someone else’s face is surreal. I stare, mouth open, my mother’s words ringing in my ears. You have his eyes. I hear Janie’s voice. You and Amelia were born in the same hospital. And I know, somehow, some way, that I’m looking into the eyes of my birth father.

  I imagine those ladderlike genetic animations every science teacher talks about with more enthusiasm than I could ever understand. I see missing links and disconnected rungs, the secret code that ties all this together. This man is my father. Mae and Amelia are my half sisters. Nothing makes sense. Everything makes sense.

  “Excuse me, the curtain was closed.�
� It’s his voice. The one from my dreams about when I was lost in the dark as Amelia. The one who whispered about lost girls and saints.

  “Wait, Sophie!” Mae’s voice pushes past the memory, shaky with desperation. It’s the fear I sense trembling there that gives me the strength to walk into the tiny space.

  “I, um, well, I found something that we think might belong to Amelia. I was just going to leave it for her.” I hate myself for stuttering, but I hate myself even more for not being fast enough to stop this man, our father, from grabbing the notebook out of my arms.

  I can’t take my eyes away from his, and not just because of their similarity to my own, but because they’re an angry bloodshot red.

  “Sophie.” Mae repeats my name like a warning, her eyes trying to tell me something. Did Dr. Dowling already tell her the truth about her mom? Is she panicked? Angry? Looking for me to rescue her from an awkward confrontation with a father she’s never known?

  Amelia’s journal looks all wrong in his shaking hands, and I can’t help but notice how his skin is drawn too tightly across his cheeks. Does he know that he has another daughter too? Will he recognize me for who I am? I look down at my toes to be safe.

  Mae is examining a silver necklace looped around her fingers. She looks so scared and alone that I reach out to grab her hand and she actually takes it.

  “You’re here to tell her all this? You’re here to tell her the truth?” I don’t risk looking at him as he speaks. Instead, I manage a tense nod.

  His face breaks into a huge smile and he’s completely transformed. “Oh my God. I can’t, I mean, I can’t thank you enough.” His fingers reach for the medallion hanging around his own neck. “Haylee, honey, you have to see this. It’s everything I was trying to explain to you. It’s all here.” He thrusts the book in Mae’s direction and she takes it with trembling fingers. “Do you girls know who St. Anthony is?”

  We both shake our heads. His intensity, the way he says his daughter’s name, the crooked smile, it feels wrong. His eyes might be unnervingly familiar, but I can’t find anything else there, no deeper, primal connection, no calming presence. His voice, the poem, the coins, and the desperate whispers that sliced through the darkness of Amelia’s coma again and again, it all feels . . . broken.