Sudha entered the room moments after the doctor left. Her silent entrance surprised me. “Mrs. Cristobal?”
I placed the glass back on the tray. “Yes?”
“You haven’t taken your medication yet.”
I looked at the med cup on the tray, then picked up one of the pills and scrutinized it. “Why am I taking this?”
“You must take it. You do not wish your body to reject your heart, do you?” She scolded as if she was admonishing a recalcitrant three-year-old for not finishing her meal.
I dropped the medication back into the cup. “What is your place in this household?”
“Mrs. Cristobal!” She straightened her shoulders and eyed the rejected pill. An unspoken how-dare-you-question-me vibe rang throughout the room.
“How long have you worked for us?” I asked with forced casualness. When she didn’t answer, I raised my voice. “How long?”
“I’m here as long as necessary,” she murmured, restrained deference in her attitude.
She picked up the med cup, dropped the contents into her palm, then shoved her open hand at me. I accepted the pills, but made no move to ingest them. “I have a lunch appointment with Marnie.”
Her right eyelid twitched. “I would think that after last night…” She cleared her throat. “I do not wish to interfere, Mrs. Cristobal…” Maybe she sensed she had overstepped her place. “Do you wish me to drive you?”
My head pounded from the strain of being someone I wasn’t. “Yes, I think I do. I’m not up to driving.”
“Take your medication, Mrs. Cristobal.”
I placed one of the pills on my tongue and raised the water to my lips. She left, not failing to hide her sneer from me. After she closed the door behind her, I spat the pill into my hand and pocketed it for later disposal down the toilet.
When her footfalls receded, I snatched the phone from the base and dialed my mother’s number. I couldn’t call Alex yet. I wasn’t ready to answer his questions.
Oakland, California, wasn’t a local call. While I redialed, adding a one, I searched for a telephone directory. Before my hand wrapped around the book’s binding, the recorded message informed me I also needed an area code. I hung up and looked at the cover of the phone book.
Norfolk/Portsmouth/Hampton/Virginia Beach/Newport News.
I tried once again to reach my mother, adding the one and the area code. Her number was no longer in service.
My pulse raced. I pressed my hand against my chest and tried to calm myself. Nothing slowed the furious beating of my heart. I stared at the receiver in my hand, and then pushed the hair out of my eyes before I dialed my home phone. A woman answered, her voice drowsy with sleep. I glanced at the clock. Morning had not yet dawned in California. What woman was answering my phone so early? “May I speak to Alex?”
“Who’s calling?” she asked, returning my suspicious tone.
“Who’s asking?”
“You called. You tell me.”
“This is Rhonda. Alex’s wife. Who are you?”
She sucked in a swift breath. “You are sick.”
An uneasy tension settled in my gut and I ground my teeth together before I managed to calm down. “Let me talk to my husband.”
His husky, early-morning voice resonated in the background. A hushed whisper floated across the line. “Who is it?” More whispers. “It’s too early in the morning for prank calls.”
“Who is this?” His voice boomed in my ear.
“Alex, it’s me, Rhonda.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not being funny,” I cried in exhaustion.
“Leave my wife alone.”
“But I’m your wife…”
Rage replaced his irritation. “Rhonda has been dead for three years.”
I wanted to scream at him how preposterous that sounded, but before I could say anything, the dial tone hummed in my ear. In a daze, I replaced the phone on the stand. Still grasping the directory, my eyes strayed to the cover. The year was 2011. I remembered putting sheets on my bed, April 24, 2006. Plain old everyday cotton sheets. Walmart’s finest. Not Egyptian cotton. And on my bed. Not the bed upstairs.
What happened to the last five years of my life? It’s 2011. My last memory is from 2006. If I died in 2008…What happened in those two missing years that would make me want to forget who I am and be somebody else? And where had I been the last three years if I hadn’t been inhabiting Jennifer’s body?
The odd fact of my mortality slapped me in the face. I dragged Jennifer’s computer keyboard toward me. Logging onto AOL as Rhonda Prentiss was too easy. Incredible, yet simple. After some time and frustration, I located my obituary and stared at my life, reduced to three stingy paragraphs.
Chapter Three
Sudha idled at the curb in front of a small bistro, her fingers tapped the steering wheel as she waited for my instructions. I had none to give so I turned away from her. She sucked in an irritated breath and shoved the gear into park.
Wrought iron patio sets crowded the narrow sidewalk under a wide green-and-white-striped awning. Large pots of red, pink, and fuchsia geraniums added bold color to the scene. Bottles of glittering red wine enticed would-be drinkers to indulge in a glass while waiting for their meal. The few diners already seated engaged in desultory conversations and picked at a variety of entrées. Sandwiches. Salads. Cold pastas. A few of them juggled their meal and a laptop.
I preferred a cheeseburger and fries, but Jennifer’s body seemed to tell me she hadn’t indulged in that temptation in a very long time.
A blonde tensed as I emerged from the SUV—her posture straightened when our eyes met. Elegant in a Calvin Klein sheath, her style was different from Jennifer’s, but the same high-end quality. Her long blonde hair fell in soft curls from the top of her perfectly shaped head. Not a strand out of place. Neck long and slender. Nose straight and pointed just at the tip. Mouth painted bright red to match her talons. The hot color looked right on her. Her long fingernails tapped the table as her eyebrows drew together across her unblemished forehead. I detected an aura of righteous indignation.
Sudha wasted no time leaving the scene of this crime, announcing her intentions to everyone within earshot that she would return for me in an hour and a half. I grimaced, but didn’t rebut her. As the SUV disappeared from sight, I returned my attention to the woman. My lower lip started trembling. I shook off the jitters and approached her.
“After last night, I didn’t expect you to come,” she said. Ice crackled with every word. I could almost see the air freezing between us.
“Why wouldn’t I?” The silky words glided from my lips. Used to the husky quality of my voice, the smooth tenor of Jennifer’s words coming from my newly acquired mouth stunned me afresh.
She didn’t nudge me toward a seat. Never gave me an invitation to join her. I sat across from her anyway, dropping Jennifer’s Fendi bag on the chair between us. I smoothed the tail of her Ralph Lauren skirt beneath my thighs. The heel of her Prada sling-back pump caught on the uneven pavement and I pulled it free with hidden effort.
Jennifer’s clothes fit me. But then…I had her body. She had remained trim while I had blossomed into matronly womanhood. No amount of dieting or exercise reshaped me. I was a perfect pear on short, stubby legs while Jennifer carried a tall frame worthy of a runway model. She was as light as I was dark. My unruly, naturally curly hair coiled about my heart-shaped face. Her blonde, highlighted bob curved around a classic oval. The only thing we had in common was our gender.
“Jennifer, are you listening to me?” Marnie’s sharp reproach interrupted my mental wanderings. Her pale blue eyes flashed, displaying a streak of cold maliciousness. “You’re acting weird, but…you don’t look ill.”
“I’m not sick,” I returned without blinking, dragging my inner thoughts away from Jennifer’s wardrobe, her shape, and her obvious good looks.
Marnie huffed her disapproval. “You certainly had Daddy going last night.”
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br /> My eyes swept over my antagonist. Marnie must be Anson Cristobal’s daughter. Is she also Jennifer’s? No. There is no mother-daughter vibe.
I inhaled a solid, purifying breath. “I’m sorry if I upset him. Sudha seems to think I faked an…episode.”
“Is that so?” Her words numbed me like frostbite.
Maybe she’s not accustomed to such candor from Jennifer…or maybe she doesn’t believe me.
The waitress interrupted our glacial interchange. Marnie ordered a salad that was barely there. I selected something heartier—a roast beef sandwich au jus with seasoned fries. Marnie turned large, accusing eyes on me. I returned a frosty glare of my own, daring her to question my choice.
I don’t have health issues like Jennifer does. A pang of guilty conscience assaulted me. While I inhabit Jennifer’s body, maybe I should protect her heart.
Our orders taken, Marnie leaned back in her chair and drilled me with a mean stare. A gust of wind rushed past us, framing her perfect face with her perfect hair.
I pushed wayward bangs out of my eyes. The cut—a flippy style I would have never chosen—wasn’t functional. All show and no go.
“So…why did you want to meet?” Nothing in Jennifer’s planner indicated this was Marnie’s idea, save for the slashed red lines beneath her name.
She glistened with saccharine sweetness and smiled back at me with perfect white teeth. “I want you to stay away from Price.”
I traced the grillwork on the tabletop, not daring to meet her eyes. “Price?” I asked as if I didn’t know whom she meant…because I didn’t.
“There are other cardiologists capable of dealing with your unusual situation.”
So Price is Dr. Hollywood. I touched the fabric over the scar. She smirked at me like a supercilious cat and stretched across the table—her claws tapping the dessert menu in front of me. I couldn’t concentrate on cheesecake while she subtly threatened me. “Is it not bad enough you’re lying to my father? Must you also take my—”
Someone passed near us, so she clamped her mouth shut and glanced at the other diners beneath her long lashes.
I waited until she shifted her gaze toward me again. “I’m finding another doctor. I told him that.”
“That’s not good enough,” she fussed in her deeply southern accent. “You have to stay away from him. What if Daddy had come upon the two of you instead of me?”
“What if he had?” I countered, my curiosity piqued.
She pursed her lips. “I had hoped I could…”
“You had hoped what?”
“Never mind…I won’t make that mistake again.” She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t like you, Jennifer. I never have. I thought Daddy made a mistake marrying you. I told him so. I tried to stop him from ruining his life, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Marnie appeared to be a pot about to boil over, so I presented her with a blank countenance. “But now that you’re married, I would like you to stay that way. For his sake.” She hissed her anger at me in a near whisper. “For some strange reason, he worships the ground you walk on. Until now, he would have never considered leaving you because of your heart condition. Now that your surgery is behind you…well…don’t put him in the position of making terrible choices.”
“And leave Price to you?” I asked, not bothering to lower my volume.
She blushed a bright crimson. “My relationship with Dr. Whitaker is beside the point. I’m more concerned with what your indiscretions will do to Daddy.”
“Of course you are.”
Her blush transformed into a flush of anger. “If you don’t stay away from him, I’ll be forced to—”
“Stop before you say something you can’t take back. I’ll leave Price alone. I don’t want him. You can have him. I have no intention of hurting your father that way.” Marnie opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “I’m taking a trip to California soon.”
She leaned back in her chair and tilted her perfectly coiffed head. “Whatever for?”
“I have personal business to take care of. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but maybe while I’m away you can mend things with Dr. Whitaker.”
Marnie’s face twisted with scorn—not a pretty look for her. “How gracious of you.”
“No. Not at all. I’m simply being practical.”
She laughed outright, her cackle devoid of mirth. “Does Daddy know of your plans?”
“No. I haven’t mentioned them. My plans have just now formed.”
“I bet they have. Do you really think you should go out there again?”
“If I were you, Marnie, I’d accept things as they appear and not make too big a fuss. You are, after all, getting your way.”
“If I had my way, we would not be having this conversation.” She rose from the table, peering down at me with undisguised hatred. “I think it’s time you told him the truth. If you don’t, I will.” Within seconds she was gone, leaving me with the unpaid check.
Chapter Four
I waited at the wrought iron table in front of the bistro. Sudha would not return for another fifteen or twenty minutes, so I spent my time studying the cityscape around me.
In the near distance, the taller buildings of what I assumed was downtown Norfolk nudged above the outlying structures surrounding the heart of the city. A few clouds scudded across the sky. A stray sea gull squawked overhead, looking for a handout. The faint blare of horns announced the presence of sea-going vessels somewhere nearby. I struggled with what I remembered of Virginia geography. If this was Norfolk, then Chesapeake Bay and Hampton Roads lay to the east and northeast toward the Atlantic Ocean, adding to the atmosphere the peculiar aromas typical of a coastal town.
I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sunshine, absorbing the warmth of the only constant in my life.
“Jennifer?”
My eyes fluttered open. The man wore the uniform of a deputy sheriff. The nametag on his jacket read Sairs. I smiled against my will. Hazel eyes. Square jaw. Dark brown hair. Not as glamorous as the doctor, but handsome in a rugged, he-man sort of way.
“It’s been a long time.” His voice wasn’t warm, but it held a note of familiarity. He pointed toward the seat Marnie had vacated. “May I?” When I didn’t object, he slid into the chair in one easy, fluid motion, and then examined me a long moment before he spoke. “Marnie’s not a little girl any longer, is she?”
Was he watching us argue?
It took me a few seconds to regain my composure. “No. Apparently not.”
“How is she?” His query was devoid of concern. I grimaced at the memory of my tense confrontation with Marnie. My relationship with Anson’s daughter would not be cordial. He laughed, but his amusement seemed stilted. “That bad?” He cleared his throat, purging the remains of his mirth. “You look pale. Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Are you having trouble—”
“With my heart? No, I think it’s my mind that’s malfunctioning.” The admission tumbled from my mouth against my will.
He continued examining me with bold sweeps of his eyes. “How is Anson?”
“All right, I guess.”
“You guess? You don’t know?” A sneer spread across his features. “You aren’t happy with Anson?” His query reverberated with tacit meaning Jennifer would probably understand but I didn’t get. What was the reason for the man’s derision? “I told you marrying him was a mistake.”
“That does seem to be the general consensus.”
He snorted at my light-hearted quip. “Money never fixes anything. The only legal recourse you have to undo what you’ve done is divorce. And to tell him the truth.” His face clouded with sadness coupled with intense expectation. In his bold statements, I found the sincerity that was missing in my earlier confrontation with the doctor.
Has this man voiced this opinion before? Does Jennifer’s failure to take his advice cause his sour attitude? And what truth has she failed to tell Anson?
“How long have I been married to Anson?”
Confusion creased his brow. My question puzzled him, but he answered anyhow. “Almost five years.”
“And when did I have surgery for my heart?”
He frowned. “Nearly three years ago. The fall of 2008, I think.”
This new bit of information astonished me as I tried to shift all the pieces of the puzzle into place. My last memory is five years old, but Jennifer’s surgery was three years ago. Then…Jennifer had her surgery the same year I died. The timing of the two events was no coincidence. Those two missing years suddenly seemed even more significant. After three years, why is Jennifer suddenly having problems with her memory? What happened to shift her reality from her life to mine? What happened in Jennifer’s three missing years? “And how long have I been…seeing…Dr. Whitaker?”
“I don’t know,” he answered through tight lips.
“But you know about that?”
He nodded.
“You know about the affair?”
“Of course,” he bit out his answer. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out.” He brushed his bitterness aside with a sweep of his hand.
Intuition spurred my next question. “How long ago were we involved?”
“Why must we go through this recital of personal history? Is there a point here?” He rose and shoved his chair under the table. When I wrapped my fingers around his forearm, he flinched.
The anger in his eyes pushed me back in my seat. I released him. “I’m sorry. I…I’m not myself. Something’s wrong with me.”
“What do you mean?” Concern edged between the layers of his annoyance. He lowered himself into his chair once again.
“Something’s wrong with my memory.”
“Your memory? Have you talked to your…well, I guess that might be a bit difficult to discuss with him…considering.”
Which him? Does he mean Anson or Price?
The memory of my confrontation with Dr. Whitaker produced spasms of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I rewound our conversation, realizing the extent of my ignorance, and tried to decipher the barbs in the context of what I’d learned. “I don’t want to talk to Price. I told him I didn’t want to see him again, but I need to tell him about my memory problem. I think it might have something to do with my heart.”
Deceptions of the Heart Page 2