“Don’t make me have to get the ice water,” he says.
“Go ahead and try.” I still have my eyes closed, but now I fake sleep to get Mac’s goat.
He doesn’t go for the ice water. Instead, he takes my hand. I’m light enough that it’s easy for him to wrench me away from the bed. I squeal and grab onto a pillow, but it doesn’t do any good. He rolls me onto my back and then kisses me on the lips. “I could have you arrested for spousal abuse,” I say.
“You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, Detective Fischer.”
“Shut up,” I say. I whack him with the pillow. “Why don’t you go and take a shower?”
“Only if you aren’t going back to sleep.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” He kisses me again, just a dry peck, and then gets off the bed. I grab my glasses from the nightstand, but Mac is just a dark blue blur that mingles with the gold wallpaper. I squint until I can bring him in focus.
I take the glasses off to make sure the lenses are still in. They are. They aren’t broken or cracked either. My eyes have gotten worse. Just what I need with my eye doctor thirty-five hundred miles away. I’m sure they have eye doctors in Paris, but I can imagine the hassle of an eye exam with a French doctor who doesn’t know English.
I’ll just have to tough it out for the next two weeks. With a sigh, I get out of bed and decide to join Mac in the shower.
***
We have breakfast at a little café down the street. We dine on too-sweet coffee and too-buttery croissants. Mac, who knows a little French from school, tries to read a newspaper while I check the papers back home on my phone. It’s too bad Maddy’s little rag doesn’t have a digital edition or else I could see what she’s up to.
The news is not good. Even with my shitty eyes, it’s easy to read the headline that takes up half the screen: STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN! This time it was a black couple on the south side. Witnesses said the couple had left a birthday party for the woman’s grandma. The bodies turned up a few hours later, left on the doorstep of a nearby bakery. Vollmer left his calling card; he stripped the bodies and painted a swastika on their bellies.
That brings the count up to six. Plus the guy up north whom Vollmer killed to steal his car and clothes. All in the week I’ve been on my honeymoon with Mac. I shake my head and then put the phone down.
“Bad news?” he asks.
“That shit Vollmer killed two more.”
Mac goes into shrink mode. “You feel responsible?”
“A little. If I had killed him twenty-five years ago he wouldn’t have been able to go on a second rampage.”
“You did what you thought was right,” Mac says. “It’s not your fault.”
“Tell that to the seven people who are dead.”
“Stacey—”
“I know, the police will handle it. It’s not my job anymore. I’m just an unemployed kid on honeymoon with her rich, handsome sugar daddy.”
I reach across the table to squeeze his hand, to let him know I’m OK. There is still a part of me who thinks I should be back home to help Jake track Vollmer down. Who better to do it than the man who put him away the first time? Or the girl who used to be the man who put him away. “It still sucks not being able to do anything. I mean, we’re here having fun and that lunatic is murdering people left and right.”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do. I’m sure Mr. Madigan wouldn’t want you to cancel your honeymoon so you can sit around feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true.” I take Mac’s hand to pull him from the table. “Come on, let’s go see the sights.”
As far as sights go, mostly we look at store windows. There are so many gorgeous outfits on display. I imagine myself in each one. I am a young woman in Paris, after all.
I’m tempted to let Mac buy everything I see, but I resist. Mac is pretty well off from his practice, but he’s not Bill Gates. Besides, now that I’m his wife, I have to think of our finances jointly.
There is one black-and-white dress I can’t resist. I have almost a religious experience when the sun falls on the window in such a way that my head replaces that of the mannequin. It’s like someone designed that dress with me in mind.
I have no idea how euros equate to dollars, though a thousand euros is probably a lot of money. Still, it must be destiny that I saw my reflection in the window in the dress. And it is just one dress—with matching shoes, of course. “Can I wear this out?” I ask the salesman who speaks English.
“Of course you may, mademoiselle.”
I almost squeal with joy as I scurry into the changing room with the box. The joy starts to fade when I see my reflection in the mirror. Damn, I look tired. The bags around my eyes are even puffier than before and darker too. The lines are still there around my eyes and mouth and the gray hairs at my temples have multiplied. When I brush my bangs aside, I see a crease on my forehead. I look like I’m forty years old, not eighteen. I really ought to go home and take a long, hot bath and a nap—alone.
Despite how worn I look, the dress looks good on me. It really does fit as if it were made for me. The shoes too. I ignore the wrinkles and then step out of the changing room to show Mac. “What do you think?” I ask.
“Has someone seen my wife? All I see is a supermodel,” he says.
“You’re overdoing it, buster,” I say. I slap him gently on the arm. I still let him take my hand to lead me from the store.
***
We have a whole list of places to see. A lot of these are Maddy’s idea. She emailed the list before I left; she wants me to get some pictures so she and Grace can get an idea of what to expect before they come here on their honeymoon. That might not be for a while; they need time to arrange their schedules.
Of course we have to go back to the Eiffel Tower to get some pictures in the daylight. It’s a good thing the tower is so big that even with my blurred vision I can see it pretty well. “You want to go up to the top and throw pennies?” I say.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“OK, we could just spit.”
“I never knew you had such a mean streak.”
“I guess there are still some things we don’t know about each other.”
We take some pictures of the tower and I send them to Maddy. I’m not sure what time it is back home, probably late at night. In which case she can see them when she gets up in the morning. By then I’ll probably have some more for her.
We spend the rest of the afternoon like Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca; we ride around pressed close to each other as we see the sights. As time goes by, I start to feel a dull ache that begins in my temples and radiates to my eyes. I close my eyes as it feels like someone has stuck pins in them.
Mac doesn’t notice this as he checks out restaurants on his phone. When he suggests a couple, I don’t say anything. All I can think about is going back to the hotel to lie down for a while and then taking that hot bath. He finally senses my distress. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve just got a headache,” I say. “Must be this French air.”
More likely it’s my shitty eyes that have become strained from looking out of these glasses for too long. “We can go back to the hotel if you need some rest.”
“Thanks,” I say. With my eyes still closed, I snuggle up to Mac. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK, chipmunk. We have a whole week to try the food.”
The pain has died down a little by the time we get back to the hotel. I manage to keep my eyes open all the way up to our room. I don’t bother to change; I just slip off the dress and shoes and collapse onto the bed.
“Do you want anything?” Mac asks. “Some aspirin maybe?”
“That would be good,” I mumble into my pillow. “Thanks.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He does get the aspirin. By then I’m already asleep. I wake up later to find him asleep next to
me, the aspirin on the nightstand. I slide across the bed to snuggle up against him again, like in the cab. He must not have been asleep long or very deeply as he instantly stirs. “Hi, chipmunk,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“A little better,” I say.
“Tomorrow will go better. I promise,” he whispers.
“I believe you.” We fall asleep together; it’s the first night since the wedding we don’t make love. I tell myself we need a little break from that anyway to recharge our batteries. Mac’s right; everything will be better tomorrow.
Chapter 20
Our first night in Rome, I have to put Maddy’s bedroom advice to good use. As she and Meg Ryan before her indicated, it’s not hard to fake an orgasm. I’ve had enough real orgasms in the last two weeks that I know what one should sound like. All I have to do is throw my head back, make the same sound I do when I come, and then sag onto the bed.
The last part is the easiest because I’m really, really tired. I have to stifle a yawn as Mac tries to pleasure me. I know he’s doing his best because he thinks it’s what I want. So I just go with it and pretend it’s like all those other times. I fall asleep while we cuddle.
Mac’s usually the first one up, but this morning I wake up first. My bladder nags at me, so I slide out of bed. It takes me about three seconds to trip on a leg of the bed. I grab onto the post to keep upright. I remind myself to be careful; this is a different hotel room now, with a whole new set of dangers for me and my terrible eyes.
It’s also a new challenge to find the bathroom. The first place I end up turns out to be a closet; our coats whack me in the face. I really should turn on the light, but then Mac will wake up. It’s better to grope my way along.
While I sit on the toilet seat, I notice something different. My breasts are saggy inside my nightgown. Maybe it’s my imagination, but the nightgown seems tighter as well. I put a hand to my stomach and feel a thick roll of flab there. I know we’ve eaten a lot of rich French food the last week, but have I put on that much weight?
When I go to the sink to wash my hands, I put a hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp. The gray hairs at my temples have become swathes of gray, to give my hair a salt-and-pepper appearance. The gray hairs, the wrinkles, the thick midsection, and the saggy boobs can mean only one thing: I’m getting old. Probably just about ready for menopause.
How could I be so stupid after what happened before? With the first gray hairs and wrinkles I should have called Dr. Palmer. I should have gone in so she could check my age. It probably would have come back in the mid-thirties. I sit back down on the toilet and run a hand through my salt-and-pepper hair. It has to be that shot Nath gave me. It had leveled off and held steady for over a week. Then it started up again and I was too absorbed with the wedding and honeymoon to pay attention.
“Shit,” I mumble. My voice sounds a little deeper now too, like I’ve smoked a couple packs a day for years.
I hurry into the living room. My purse is on a table, where I carelessly tossed it as Mac led me to the bedroom. I search through the purse to find my phone. I hope we get a signal here. I go to my contacts and find Dr. Palmer’s name. I try the lab first. It rings five times before it goes to voice mail. Then I try her cell. Again it goes to voice mail. “Dr. Palmer, this is Stacey,” I whisper. “I’m having a problem. I need you to call me back as soon as you can. Please. I’m scared. I need help.”
I already know what Palmer will want: blood. She’ll want to take some blood samples and run other tests to see what’s happened to me, though it seems pretty obvious to me. For whatever reason the FY-1978 is working in reverse. I’m getting older instead of younger. Will it stop or will I age until I’m a dried-up mummy?
The smart thing would be to get on the next flight back home so Palmer can run her tests. I look back at the bedroom and think of Mac; he’s so excited about our honeymoon. I don’t want to spoil all that, not if I don’t have to. Palmer might not need me to come in; she might be able to figure something out on her own.
Anyway, I shouldn’t panic. I should wait and see what Palmer says. Then I think of my hair. Mac might be able to overlook the wrinkles, but the gray hair makes it pretty obvious. I need to cover it up, at least until I know more about what’s happening to me.
I find my suitcase where the bellhop left it in the living room. I dress quickly, unconcerned with what I put on. Then I find a hotel key and hurry out the door.
***
I have to try three salons before I can find one to dye my hair. It would be easy if I wanted to dye it a normal color, but I want to dye it red, the bright red of when Mac and I were together for the last three years.
To explain that to an Italian stylist is the first problem. I have to point, first at my glasses and then at my hair. The first two finally understand, but they don’t have that color in stock. If I want a carrot red they can do that, but not fire engine red.
I wander around the city, hands in my pockets, until I find a neighborhood more like the garment district. I know the third time will be the charm when I see the stylist has a bob the exact color I want. All I need to do is point to her hair and then to mine and she seems to understand what I want.
While I’m in the chair, I hear my phone buzz a couple of times. It’s probably Mac wondering where the hell I am. I’ll have to tell him I went out to sightsee on my own and got lost. That’s a plausible story since at the moment I really don’t know where I am in the city. If he wants to press the issue I can say I went to find him a gift. That’s plausible too, since this could be considered a gift to him, a little role-playing to spice things up.
The hairdresser finishes and spins me around in the chair. I have to lean forward a little so I can see myself. The hair looks the right color, an adorable bright red. Through some more pantomiming I indicate how I want it styled. She gets the pigtails right, though the bangs are a little sloppier than usual. It’ll be good enough to cover the lines on my forehead.
I nod to indicate I’m satisfied. Then I reach into my purse for some euros. Despite two weeks in Europe, I’m still not sure if I tip too little or too much. The girl smiles at me, so I guess she’s satisfied too. She gives me a kiss on each cheek before she tells me ciao.
It’s not that hard to find a schoolgirl outfit in Rome. We are in the Pope’s backyard. The pattern on the skirt is a little different from my old one, but it fits well enough. I have to make a separate stop at another clothes store to get a bra with more support so my saggy girls will look perkier.
In the cab on the way back to the hotel I finally take my phone out of my purse. There’s a message from Mac. There are three other ones from Jake. Since he’s an old fogy when it comes to technology, he doesn’t say what he wants; he just growls at me to call him back ASAP. Maybe he wants some help on the Vollmer case. Or maybe Big Al eighty-sixed him from Squiggy’s and Jake needs someone to commiserate with.
I bring his number up from my address book. It’s about seven in the morning there; Jake should be out of bed by now. Unlike me and Dr. Palmer, Jake picks up on the second ring. “About fucking time,” he snaps at me before I can even say hello.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You got a cold?” he asks.
“It must be a shitty connection.”
“Yeah, maybe. Look, we got big trouble here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone knocked over Lennox last night.”
“Lennox Pharmaceuticals?”
“Of course Lennox fucking Pharmaceuticals.”
I remember Dr. Palmer didn’t pick up the phone when I called. “Did something happen to Dr. Palmer? I tried to call earlier and she didn’t answer.”
“She’s not going to be answering anything for a while.”
“She’s dead?”
“No. She’s about the only one who isn’t. The rest of her staff we found dead this morning.”
“Holy shit.”
“It gets worse. Whoever did it emptied ou
t the vault.”
“The FY-1978?”
“That’s right, kid. Some assholes are probably going to sell it. Maybe to those Chinese fucks like before.”
“Ling Pharmaceuticals got bought out,” I say. “They’re out of business.”
“Well I’m sure someone wants to get their mitts on it.” Jake sighs into the receiver. “I think you should come home. Palmer’s in a coma right now, but when she wakes up, she might like to have you around. You’re about the closest she has to family.”
“Of course I will. Mac and I will get on the next flight out,” I say.
“Good. Call me from the airport so I can pick you up.”
“OK.”
Before he hangs up, Jake asks, “So how was the honeymoon?”
“It was everything I hoped for.”
***
Mac understands we need to cut our honeymoon short. Dr. Palmer is his friend too. I put my arm around his shoulders to comfort him after I deliver the bad news. “I’m sure she’ll pull out of it,” I say. “She’s a tough lady.”
“I hope so.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe anyone would do that to Clarita. Or her staff. They’re research scientists, for God’s sake.”
“Well Artie Luther already slit Dr. Nath’s wrists five years ago,” I say. “This sort of people don’t have much in the way of morality.”
“No, I guess not.” Mac lets out a sigh and then to change the subject, he swats one of my pigtails. “This is what you spent all day doing?”
“I thought you might like it,” I say. “Remind you of old times.”
“I do like it,” he says. He kisses my cheek. “I like you no matter how you look.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, but I don’t tell him about my aging yet. He’s already had enough of a shock with Dr. Palmer. It can wait until later.
In the airport, I start to think about the obvious problem when I get back: if Dr. Palmer is in a coma, her staff dead, and their work gone, who’s going to cure me? I had hoped Palmer would be able to come through to help me, but that’s impossible now. About all I can do is hope the aging stops on its own.
Chances Are Omnibus (Gender Swap Fiction) Page 75