Second Lives

by P. D. Cacek

“It means sin.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anything else? Okay, then I’ll see you two next Saturday.”

  Ryan closed the door. Sin, huh? He didn’t have to think very hard to figure out what particular Old Testament sin they’d been talking about – especially if Dr. Ellison had explained whose body Aryeh now occupied and what its previous orientation had been.

  Ah-were, sin…he’d have to remember that one.

  Standing in the entranceway, Ryan studied the folder he’d been given. All he had to do was hand it to the man and stand back. Aryeh wouldn’t be able to get out of the house fast enough after that and he wouldn’t have to watch the face of the man he’d loved change, a little more each day, into a stranger who only looked familiar.

  It would be over.

  Taking a deep breath, Ryan detoured to the study, where he tossed the folder onto his desk, and then walked back through the house to the backyard so he could ask his roomie what he’d like for dinner.

  Ryan found him asleep next to the accessible vertical press. His head was tipped back and to one side and he was snoring softly while the late-afternoon breeze ruffled the bushy stubble on his chin and cheeks. Even with the beard and longer hair and his eyes closed, he looked so much like Jamie….

  Jamie was dead.

  “Hey!”

  Aryeh jerked forward, eyelids popping open, his hands gripping the chair’s armrests.

  “Vos? Vos zogt ir?Vos tut zich?”

  “Sorry,” Ryan said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s okay, everything’s okay.”

  When Aryeh looked up he blinked his brown eyes and didn’t look like Jamie anymore.

  “Yoh, yes…me too. Sorry. I was just….”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Thinking, first…then I fall asleep.” The edges of the beard fluffed when he smiled. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. So, any idea what you’d like for dinner tonight? I was thinking…Chinese? You know, chow mein?”

  “Yoh, Chinese. Chow mein. Chicken, please, and some of the crispies, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  “Fried won-tons.” Maybe there was something about racial profiling after all. He never knew a Jew who didn’t love Chinese. “Anything else?”

  “Maybe some almond cookies and a little tea?”

  “Almond cookies and green tea, okay, I’ll phone in the order and have it delivered.”

  Aryeh frowned and looked up at the sky. Ryan did the same. There were still a couple of hours before the sun set completely and the first three stars appeared through the urban glow. This, Ryan had learned, signified the end of Shabbos, at which time Aryeh would retire to the guest room to pray and Ryan would ignore him and set the table.

  He might be the Shabbos goy, another thing he’d learned, and have to turn lights on and off on Friday nights, but that was it. They’d come to an understanding early in their forced co-habitation. Pork, although Ryan was free to have as much of it as he wanted while at work or with friends, was not to come into the house. Ryan made the same condition concerning gefilte fish, although he wished now he’d included kasha.

  Prayers were allowed, in private, but things like celebrating the Shabbos with candles and challah and horseradish weren’t going to happen.

  “I won’t call until the sun sets,” Ryan said and Aryeh smiled with Jamie’s lips. “Because eating before that would be an aweire, right? A sin?”

  The smile faded.

  “Good word. I’m going to take a nap. You need anything before I go in?”

  Aryeh shook his head. “Nein… No, thank you. I’m fine. Have a pleasant sleep.”

  Ryan turned and kept walking until he reached the master bedroom. Jamie’s picture, looking away, was the first thing he saw.

  Taking a deep breath, he closed the door and locked it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Crissy

  Crissy sat facing the bank manager in as demure a poise as she could portray: back straight, but shoulders slightly forward and stooped to show meekness, chin and eyes lowered for modesty, with her hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed and knees together. She’d kept quiet during the meeting, but occasionally would sigh, to round out the characterization, while Frank Stanton, MD, explained to the assistant bank manager what exactly had happened to poor Helen Harmon.

  Blankie Frankie a doctor, who would have thought it?

  The story was a complete fabrication, of course, and she’d helped Frankie rehearse it at her apartment – she had her own apartment, how cool was that? – and even if she couldn’t understand most of the medical terms he was using, she couldn’t help but be impressed by his performance.

  Who would have thought he’d turn out to be that good an actor?

  Still, she was getting hungry and he’d promised to take her out to Hamburger Hamlet for lunch.

  “Beyond the general weakness and decreased fine motor control,” Frankie said, “the aneurysm and subsequent stroke stemming from the initial cardiac episode severely damaged those portions of Miss Harmon’s frontal cortex that are responsible for memory and cognitive processes.”

  Crissy looked up, on cue, and saw concern in Mrs. N. Sutherland’s face.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, Miss Harmon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Crissy had made her voice go all low and thick and added a little sniffle at the end for good measure. Frankie reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently. Over the top, bring it down a notch. She gave him a small nod – message received – and smiled bravely.

  “You’re very kind, considering I couldn’t remember your name or any of the others when we walked in. It’s just so – ” pause, two, three, “ – hard.”

  Mrs. Sutherland put a hand to the front of her jacket. “Oh please, don’t worry about that. I’ll explain it to the tellers. Now, Dr. Stanton, how can I help?”

  Frankie let go of Crissy’s hand and sat up, facing the woman. “Due to Miss Harmon’s physical limitations, especially with her fine motor control, the signatures you have on file for her accounts and, of course, her credit and debit cards will no longer match her current abilities. Both her cards were issued from this bank, were they not?”

  “Why, yes,” Mrs. Sutherland said and Crissy felt her belly flutter. She’d never had a credit card before. Her parents thought she was too young to have credit cards.

  “Given the circumstances, I wondered if it wouldn’t be best if Miss Harmon got new signature cards.”

  The woman smiled and stood up. “I’ll go get them. Do you feel up to talking to our stock consultant? I’m sure he’ll have a few cards and papers for you to sign as well.”

  Crissy looked over and Frankie nodded for her and said it was probably best if they got as much of Ms. Harmon’s finances settled as quickly as possible.

  “Fine, I’ll be right back with the signature cards.”

  Mrs. Sutherland touched Crissy’s shoulder as she passed and Crissy waited until she’d left the glassed-in office before relaxing into a comfortable slump.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “It won’t be much longer, and this will save a lot of time and trouble later on.”

  She pouted and he pretended not to notice.

  “I’m not going to get in trouble doing this, am I?”

  “No,” Frankie said. “Why would you?”

  Crissy turned in the chair to look out the glass wall behind her. Mrs. Sutherland was all the way across the bank lobby, talking to one of the tellers.

  “Because,” she whispered, “I’m not Helen Harmon.”

  “But you are, Crissy. According to dental records and fingerprints you are physically Helen Louise Harmon. Dr. Ellison and the lawyer explained all this to you, remember?”

  Crissy sighed. “Yeah, they explained it.”

  But so what, it
was crazy! She’d died and came back as an old lady? Jeeeee-ZUZ. Dr. Ellison told her that he understood, but how could he? He didn’t suddenly go from being sixteen to forty-two in a minute. FORTY-TWO! God, that was four years older than her mother and one younger than her dad, for gosh sakes. It was like going from a ten to a half.

  But at least her half was loaded. Helen Harmon had money and Dr. Ellison, the lawyer and even Frankie said how lucky she was because of it. Yeah, lucky, but they didn’t still jump every time they walked past a mirror.

  Crissy slumped deeper into the chair.

  “This is messed up.”

  “Yes, it is, but it happened and you’re going to have to learn to live with it. Fortunately you’re a great actress, so just think of it as playing a part.”

  “But I’m old!”

  “Forty-two isn’t old.”

  Crissy gave him a look. “How old are you?”

  “Forty, but….”

  “You’re younger than me?”

  “No…well, technically, given the circumstances….”

  “But you were older than me!”

  He took a deep breath. “Inside I still am, Crissy.”

  “No, you’re not! Inside, jeeze, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. It doesn’t matter what’s inside! When did you get so dumb, Frankie? You used to be smart.”

  “I never realized you knew that about me. Now, about the name Frankie….” He waited until she looked at him. “I go by Frank now. Okay? Now, sit up, they’re coming back.”

  Crissy pushed herself up as Mrs. Sutherland and a middle-aged man walked into the office.

  “Okay, Frankie,” she whispered, and then resumed her characterization of one Helen Louise Harmon, age forty-two.

  * * *

  Crissy poked a french fry into the mound of pepper-topped catsup on her plate and left it standing.

  Frankie…Frank looked at her over the raised forkful of salad. “I thought you were starving.”

  She thought about pushing the plate with its half-eaten double cheeseburger and crisp fries away to make a point, but she was still hungry and even though the combo plate and thick chocolate shake was good, it just wasn’t the same as she remembered.

  But nothing was.

  “I can’t believe they closed the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset.”

  “You think that’s bad, wait until I show you downtown L.A. You won’t believe how it’s changed.”

  Despite everything, Crissy felt a small and pleasant surge of warmth race up from her belly to her chest. He wanted to show her downtown L.A. and even though she’d never particularly liked downtown L.A. – with its smog and crowds and homeless people and dirt and smell – she wasn’t going to tell him that.

  Because it was obvious that he wanted to be with her, just like in school.

  Unless he wanted to be with Helen Louise Harmon.

  A chill replaced the warm surge as Crissy picked up the burger and took a bite that was so big it made Helen Harmon’s jaw crack. Frank chuckled around his own bite of lettuce and feta cheese salad.

  “You know, I used to watch you and your friends eat in the cafeteria.”

  “Mmuuew?” She swallowed. “That’s sick.”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just that you were so popular and pretty and talented – my God, you could act – and, well, I had quite a crush on you back then.”

  No kidding? Crissy lowered the burger back to the plate and pouted.

  “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  She shrugged to prolong his agony just a bit more.

  “What? Crissy, what?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you liked me back then?”

  He gave her a wide smile that deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth and showed how much he’d aged since she screamed at him in Mr. Byrd’s office. It almost made her wish she’d have been nicer to him back then.

  Back when she was just Crissy and not some celestial science experiment gone wrong.

  “It’s because I was a bitch, wasn’t it?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Pa-leeze.” Crissy began picking up french fries and shoving them in her mouth just to keep from having to look at him. “I know what I am…was. I was a royal B-I-T-C-H who always had to have her way. That’s why I yelled at you the other day…I mean, you know, when I thought you’d messed up the character list for The Crucible. I mean, I knew there was no way I wouldn’t get the part of Abigail unless somebody screwed up and—” She swallowed and looked up. “I keep forgetting how long ago that was for you.”

  “Twenty-two years.”

  The fries hit her stomach like a ball of concrete.

  “Jeeze, it doesn’t feel that long to me.”

  “It wouldn’t. Maybe you can pretend you’ve been in a coma for twenty-two years, it might help. You’d be about the same age.”

  “Except I’m older than you.” She popped another fry and began picking apart the top of the sesame-seedless bun. “And I wasn’t in a coma. I died.”

  Saying it out loud still made her tremble.

  Frank set his fork down and reached across the table to take her hand. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Crissy moved her hand away and continued picking at the bun. “It was an accident.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “But I know you don’t believe me. You think I killed myself because I didn’t get the part, don’t you?”

  “A lot of kids kill themselves for less reason than that.”

  Crissy picked the balding burger up and slammed it down against the plate. “I didn’t kill myself, Frankie, it was an accident.”

  “Okay.” He looked around nervously. “Lower your voice.”

  She lowered her voice. “But I mean really!”

  “Okay, okay…I believe you.”

  He didn’t and she was about to tell him that when she noticed the three old ladies, in matching jogging suits, staring at her from the next table.

  “Rehearsing,” Crissy said and the three old ladies nodded and smiled and told her to break a leg before returning to their Senior Portion Lunch Specials.

  Crissy felt Helen’s face blush as she looked away.

  “It was an accident,” she told him again. “I was yelling at Mr. Byrd from the balcony and I tripped and…?”

  “You caught a light cable on the way down.” Frank lifted his water glass and finished half of it before setting it back on the table. “It was quick.”

  “I don’t remember. There was just a—” She took a deep breath and shrugged. “I really don’t remember anything after that except waking up in the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  For the next few minutes Frank used his fork to mash the chickpeas from his salad into a paste, and she alternated between picking the bun apart and finishing the milkshake.

  “You know, I see him from time to time…Mr. Byrd.”

  Crissy looked up. “God, he’s still alive?”

  And Frank laughed. “Crissy, he was in his early thirties when we were in school.”

  “Really? Wow.” She knew that, but he just seemed so much older. “Well…good. Where do you see him?”

  “I belong to a couple community theaters and—”

  “You?”

  He smiled, but she could tell the remark hurt him. Picking up the hamburger, she took another humongous bite, even though her stomach felt like it was full of rocks already.

  “At’s ate!”

  Frank cocked his head to one side and leaned forward. “What?”

  It took a few tries before Crissy managed to swallow everything in her mouth.

  “I said…that’s great. I just— I didn’t know you acted, I mean you never were in any of the school plays.”

  “I’m s
till not. I mean I don’t act.” He sat back and took a sip of water. “It’s hard enough to commit to rehearsal and performance schedules if you have a regular nine to five job. It’d be almost impossible for me. And I couldn’t see myself leaving a cast in the lurch if I had to leave in the middle of a show because I got an emergency call from the hospital. You have a little ketchup on your cheek, by the way.”

  He tapped a finger against his own cheek to show her the general area as Crissy dabbed with her napkin.

  “Thanks. So if you don’t act, whadda you do?”

  “The same things I did in high school – help with membership, rig lights, build sets…I really love building sets and I’m good at it.” He held up his hands. “Not one broken finger or major cut in the last ten years. Of course, if the hospital administrator knew what I was doing she’d have a small kitten. Interventional cardiologists are supposed to be very careful about their hands.” Frank looked at his hands, smiling, and lowered them to the table. “But it can be very boring being that careful.”

  Crissy nodded as if she knew that. “So…does Mr. Byrd build sets too?”

  “No. You know what he used to say: ‘The actor’s responsibility is to act, nothing else.’ So, he acts…nothing else.”

  “Sounds like he hasn’t changed very much.”

  “No, not very much. Would you like to see him?”

  The question came so fast she didn’t have time to prepare a reaction, so he just saw her – Helen – with her mouth open.

  “Mr. Byrd?”

  “Yeah. He’s got the lead in On Golden Pond at a little theater in Whittier. The show opens mid-October, if you’d like to go.”

  Crissy sat back and closed Helen’s mouth. Mid-October was a month away and anything could happen in a month. She could get used to being forty-two or Helen’s heart could finally give out.

  “’Kay. Sounds like fun.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  Maybe anything was possible. “It’s a date.”

  Frank called for the check and after he paid for it with a credit card (just like the brand new one she had in her wallet next to Helen Harmon’s driver’s license), they got up and left and talked about little things as he crossed the parking lot. How she liked her condo (“It’s so cool, I never thought I’d ever live near the ocean”) and if it bothered her living alone (“I’m never alone! The hospital has this social worker or whatever who comes over to check on me and make sure I’m taking all those pills and Dr. Ellison comes by once a week and Kate comes over at night— Oh, did I tell you? Kate and I are friends now. It was really weird for her, you know, but she’s nice and I never had an African American friend before and she’s helping me, you know, learn to cook and stuff because she thinks, you know. I’m glad you guys told her, it would have been weird trying to play Helen with her. She cries sometimes, you know, when she looks at me, but it’s cool.”).