“Why are you so far over on that side of the bed?”
“Am I?”
He put his arm across my waist and sighed onto my neck. “Good night.”
I lay there in the dark, a strange man’s body against mine, counting down to when he stopped touching me and went to his own side. Hours passed, and when he finally rolled away, exhaustion pulled me under.
* * *
Sunday morning at 5:00 a.m., I heard the faint snores of Heath beside me. I carefully picked up my phone and slid out of bed. The garden glinted with the slick moisture of the night’s melting frost. I was free. Free from Heath and his unrelenting moodiness.
“Time to get up,” I sang from the top of the cottage stairs. “Swap time.”
A groan sounded from the bedroom. I pushed open the door and saw her struggling up against the headboard. I took off my pajamas and slippers and passed them to her.
“Mmmm…he still asleep?”
“Everyone is asleep.”
“See you later,” she grumbled, and stumbled through the basement. I collapsed onto the bed and went straight back to sleep.
At 10:00 a.m., I awoke and texted Claire.
Me: How are you feeling?
Claire: Fine. Everyone is happy today. Getting some things done.
Thank god. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge, sat on the couch with my tablet, flipped through YouTube videos, and downloaded an ebook on housekeeping. After several hours, I took a walk down to the river. Rays of sunshine peeked through thick clouds, and sailboats floated gently across the water.
When my phone beeped, I cringed.
Claire: I’m at the studio, where are you?
Me: Be right there.
Claire’s cough could be heard from the side gate as I made my way back. At the bottom of the stairs, she was sucking oxygen down from a mask. Cough syrup and supplements had escaped from her dropped plastic bag.
“You okay?” I asked.
She pulled the mask away. “I felt faint for a moment and found myself down here.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just out of breath.”
Claire took some more breaths from the mask and then switched it off. She got up off the floor and sat on the couch.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she said.
“Heath? I thought you said everyone was happy?”
She continued on to detail their arguments across the day. Thankfully William had taken his soccer ball to the park, and I hoped he was gone before the fights started.
“I wish he’d grow up.”
“Claire, he loves you. He feels like he’s losing you.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Well…if he loved me, he’d treat me better.”
“You look like death warmed up. Your raccoon eyes need more concealer.”
“Good idea,” she said.
At 6:00 p.m., we swapped for the evening shift. Spinach and feta pie—Claire’s earlier cooking extravaganza—sat cold and ready in the fridge. We ate in front of the television; Heath sat at the shoulder of the couch, William tucked under his arm, and I sat away from them, giving them privacy.
At 9:00 p.m., Heath and I retired to the bedroom to read. His pretending to ignore me was less aggravating than his interrogations. Perhaps we’d pass the next few days this way, respecting each other’s space. Heavenly.
No such luck. The pages of his book thumped together. “I’m going to sleep in the study. Good night.”
Fine by me, I thought. I snuggled down into the blankets. In the middle of a dream, I was startled awake. A light dazzled me; Heath’s thick hair poked up in the background.
“What’s your birthday?” he asked, his tone hostile.
“Huh?”
“What was the first painting you sold?”
“Stop it.” Rattled nerves kicked me awake.
He put the flashlight in my face. “Where did I propose?” I tried to snatch the flashlight, but then he grabbed my face. “Kiss me.”
“Get away!” I cried.
He turned on the lamp, rocked back, and crossed his legs. “I want you to kiss me again. To want me.”
“I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” I said. “I have depression. I’m on medication. That’s why you think I’m acting weird.”
That surprised him. “Really?”
“Yes!”
“Oh…” He came up onto the bed, which made every muscle lock up. On his own side, he got under the covers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”
He met my eyes. “We’ve drifted apart. You turn 36 in a couple of months; we’re running out of time.”
“For what?”
“Another baby.”
He has got to be kidding. What kind of person thinks a baby is a good answer to a relationship crisis? “I’m really tired,” I said.
“Oh, babe,” he said, pulling me against him. “You’re tired all the time, and you never smile anymore. I’m really worried.” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”
We sat there, hugging each other, and then he started kissing my neck, softly, gently, and then up to my ear. His left hand started exploring my waist, then drifted upwards.
“Stop!” I said, pushing him off.
In a rage, he flung himself off the bed and shouted, “I’ll fucking go back to the study, then!”
He slammed the door behind him so hard the walls seemed to shake. I glanced at the door handle to see a lock. I scrambled across the bed and pushed the button in. In the empty bed, under the glow of lamplight, I hugged myself until morning.
* * *
Heath left early the next day, and Claire took the morning shift while I caught up on sleep. At 8:30 a.m., she roused me to drive William to school. She’d applied makeup and had put more effort into styling her hair, which made her look healthier.
As I drove William to school, my thoughts wandered so far from the task at hand that I felt outside my body.
“Mom?” William said, rousing me. We were parked at the drop-off spot. “We’re here.”
I nodded. “Have a good day.”
“Are you going to die?” he replied.
I panicked. “Huh? What do you mean?”
“The coughing. You and Dad fighting. Something is wrong with you. I’m scared.”
A woman tooted her horn at me from behind. I got out of the car, went around, and opened William’s door. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He swung around to face me. “I don’t want to go to school.”
I hugged him. “Moms and dads fight. We’ll get through it.” I pulled back and smiled at him, but he didn’t.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Time for school.”
As he walked toward the gate, he dragged his feet. Fuck. I wished for a way to fix everything.
The woman behind me tooted again. I flipped her the bird, glared at her, and went back into the car, taking a few extra moments to piss her off. I took off for the house. It was time to get Claire to tell Heath the truth.
Heath’s car sat in the driveway, and my heart raced again. If Claire and he were inside talking, I couldn’t go in.
Me: Where are you?
Claire: In the studio, why?
Me: Heath came back. I’ll deal with it.
Claire: Thanks.
My hands grew clammy on the steering wheel. I let go, got out of the car, and walked slowly to the front door.
As my fingertips felt the cold knob on the front door, he came out, face red, the veins in his arms swollen. He grabbed my wrists and yanked so hard that I went sprawling onto the entranceway floor. As I turned over, he jumped on me and held me down. “Who are you?” He lifted my shirt up. “Where are the bruises? I saw them on you earlier.”
Before I had been taken in by Amy, I’d been a street criminal, and I knew how to fight. I raised my right leg, curled it around his chest, and sent him backwards.
I jumped to my feet and stood over him. “Don’t you ever touch me like that again!”
“Stop pretending,” he said. “You’re not you. Look at you, you’re ten pounds heavier than you were yesterday. It’s not fucking depression.” He grabbed my phone from the floor and tried to get through the pin lock. Failing, he threw it away. “Are you Claire?”
“Listen to yourself,” I said. “You’re crazy. You attacked me. Keep it up and I’ll take William from you.” The words came from a place of fear, I didn’t want him to hurt me again.
I tried to leave, but he blocked the way and looked desperate. “Claire, I’m sorry.” He reached out to me but I stepped back. “You’ve changed. I’m not crazy. You smell different. Laugh for me now, and when you do, it won’t even sound like you. When I kissed you, you tasted different. I’m not crazy.”
Fear and pity kept my tongue in place.
“Fuck!” he screamed, balling his hands into fists. “I’m such a fucking idiot.” He snatched up his keys and stormed from the house. The tires of his car screamed as he took off down the road.
Back at the studio, Claire had fallen asleep again. A selection of pill bottles were on the bedside table.
I shook her. “Claire.”
“Mmm…” she said. “What?”
“You need to call Heath. He’s really upset. He attacked me.”
“Okay,” she said. She sat up suddenly to cough hard. When she was gasping for air, she pointed to the oxygen mask.
I turned the apparatus on and handed it to her. She put it to her face and drew deep breaths. “I’m not feeling good,” she said.
“Heath needs you right now, you have to fight it.”
She took her phone and texted him. Her phone beeped. “He’s at the emergency ward,” she read out. Fear showed in her eyes. “What happened?”
“Call him!” I said, hating the fact I cared so much for his well-being.
She put the phone to her ear. “Heath? What happened?” She put a hand to her mouth. “I’m coming there…what do you mean no? I’m your wife, I’m coming there now.”
Claire tried to stand, but she wobbled. I wasn’t even sure she’d make it up the stairs.
“You need to tell him,” I said. “I’ll drive you there.”
“No. You go, quickly. Call me when you find out.”
“He needs his wife, Claire!”
“I’ll go in a taxi if it’s serious.”
I let go of a frustrated growl and snatched her purse up. I stormed up the stairs, and inside the main house I picked up my phone to check it for damage. As I pulled out of the driveway, I cursed them both for what they’d dragged me into.
* * *
The hospital, a familiar sight, contained all kinds of threats. Even if Heath told the doctors I was some kind of doppelganger, they’d never believe him in a psych ward, but what if they did? He’d make a bad situation worse. A waste of time for Claire, whose days were already numbered.
At the desk, I asked for Heath Khan and showed them Claire’s driver’s license.
“Take a seat,” the lady said. “The doctor will be right with you.”
Eventually a man with a white lab coat and round glasses strolled to where I was sitting.
“Mrs. Khan?” he said.
“How is he?”
The doctor scrutinized me, adding up the parts of Heath’s story that centered around me as some imposter. “Not good. He’s agitated at the moment, a bit angry. He’s been thinking about suicide and—”
“Suicide?” Alarm shot through me. “Why?”
“He thinks he’s going crazy. He thinks you’re an imposter. It’s a delusion often associated with schizophrenia. Specifically—” The doctor’s attention shifted to my wrists. “Did he do that?”
I looked down. There were bruises in a ring around my arms. “We fought. I’ve never seen him that upset before.”
“He mentioned it. Mrs. Khan, has he been paranoid around you? Has he made you feel unsafe?”
“Yes, of course. I mean, of course I feel safe around him. Today came out of nowhere.” You owe me one, Heath.
The doctor, who I now realized was a psychiatrist, took a moment to think that over. “Does your husband use drugs?”
These questions were getting personal.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said.
“Uh-huh. Any sudden changes in his behavior? Poor sleep, irritability?”
I shook my head.
“Has he banged his head, any concussions?”
“No.”
“Stress?”
“No more than usual,” I said.
“Do you think he’s a threat to your son?”
“No!” I said, frowning. “He’s a good man.”
The psychiatrist smiled warmly. “He’s very regretful about the incident. Unfortunately, Mrs. Khan, the police will be called, because those bruises on your arms count as assault.”
“Please don’t call the cops.”
“I’m bound by law. Please take a seat.” The doctor walked to the nurse’s station and spoke with them. One of the women made the call.
I sat down and waited. Two men in uniforms rolled up a half hour later. They took me to an isolated room and invited me to sit.
“Mrs. Khan, how are you?”
“Good,” I said.
“The doctor said your husband assaulted you.”
“Sounds terrible when you put it like that.” I put my hands on the table to show them. “He’s had an episode, he’s never hurt me before.”
“Never?” one of the cops said doubtfully.
“No. Never.”
“Okay, Mrs. Khan. Here’s our card, ring us if you change your mind. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I said, and left the room and headed for the nurse’s station. “I want to see my husband.”
One of them heard me and smiled. “Take a seat.”
The doctor came back and invited me to walk with him down a hallway. We turned right, and then he entered a code into a keypad and swiped his card.
Heath was lying on a bed in the middle of a white room. Other furniture included a dining table and a lamp. A small but thick pane of glass sat in the wall at the back of the room. Heath rolled over and stood up.
“Can I hug you?” he asked.
I glanced at the doctor, who nodded his approval. “Okay,” I said to Heath. As he hugged me I said, “Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
The psychiatrist spoke, “Heath, do you think this is Claire?”
Heath noticed my wrists. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Claire.” He looked at the doctor. “No. I don’t think it’s her.”
“How can you tell?” the doctor pressed, notepad in hand.
“She looks different. Her speech is wrong—shorter, less fun. And her eyes, they look at me, but they don’t see me.”
“Good.” The doctor took some notes. “Can you both sit down?”
We sat on one of the four chairs at the table. The doctor produced his clipboard and flipped through a sheet. “No brain abnormalities, no evidence of drugs in your toxicology. It’s unlikely due to your age that it’s schizophrenia. Something like this is often brought on by drugs.”
“But you said there were none,” I argued.
“True. Heath, we’d like to keep you in here for 72 hours. In the meantime, I’d like you to take the medication the nurse brings you, understand?”
“Okay,” Heath said, and he met my eyes. They were sad eyes; hopelessness extinguished his spirit.
As the doctor rose, I did too. “Can I have some time with Heath alone?”
The doctor looked at Heath. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not angry,” he replied.
The doctor faced me. “I’ll be just outside.” He left the room and I sat back down.
Silence fell between us, but it wasn’t long before I said, “You’re not crazy.”
“What?”
“Claire has cancer.”
“Not me. Claire. You know I’m not Claire. I can explain everything.”
He let go and leaned back in his chair. The warmth disappeared from his eyes. “Talk. Now.”
I swallowed my fear. “We met at the hospital a week ago. She’d just received the news. She had a couple of weeks to live, and she didn’t want to put you through it. So I agreed to help her out.”
The look in his eyes scared me. “Two weeks.” His hands balled into fists. “Why…why did she hide it from me?”
“Her mom died of breast cancer. She didn’t want you to go through the same thing.”
He closed his eyes. “I can’t believe this.” Then laughter escaped his lips as his eyes opened. “I-I’m not crazy.” He glanced at the door. “Help me get out of here. I have to see her.”
“You’re on suicide watch. Here.” I passed him my cell phone. “Remember the Claire in my contacts?”
A cynical smirk formed at the corners of his lips.
“Message her. My name is Jay, by the way. I’m going back to keep her company, I’ll keep you informed from her phone.”
“Are you crazy? She needs to be in the hospital!”
“She’s dying, Heath. What can they do for her? She wants to be at home.”
He started tapping at the phone, and I said, “What are you doing?”
As he put the phone to his ear he said, “Calling an ambulance.”
I launched myself out of the chair, snatched the phone. Then he was on me, trying to peel my fingers apart. We fell to the ground.
“She’s got my wife! My wife is dying and she’s got her locked up in our house!” They grabbed him off of me, restraining him. “Her name’s Jay. She’s my wife’s twin or something, she’s—”
They jabbed a needle in his arm and he slumped, his speech slowing dramatically.
The doctor came over to me. “Are you okay?”
I was crying. “I have to go home. I’ll come back. Take care of him.”
“Mrs. Khan.” The doctor touched my back as I headed for the door. “I’m going to keep him here for a week, until we can find the source of these outbursts. Let’s talk when you return.”
The Shapeshifter Chronicles Page 12