Wes is slumped on a chair beside the bed; it is night. A single lamp illuminates half of his face. He is sleeping, snoring softly, like a child worn out from its holidays. A few of his curls are tumbled on his forehead; he is not wearing his spectacles, and he looks very young indeed. And handsome. A frown contracts his brow, and he opens his eyes. The corners of his mouth lift. “Courtney.” His voice is thick with sleep. “I was worried.”
“As was I,” I say, but my voice is an unintelligible croak. I am so relieved to see the golden light falling on his face instead of the dreadful gray hue and to feel the bedclothes against my arms that the dryness in my throat is but a trifle. I can feel again. I do not even care that what I feel is in a body not my own. How delightful, how delicious to feel something, anything.
“Water. Please.”
He grabs his spectacles from the top of the bookcase and scrambles out of the room, returning posthaste with a glass of cool water, which I consume in one unladylike gulp.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I nod. He points to the glass. “Would you like some more?”
“Thank you, no.”
Wes perches upon the chair beside the bed and takes my hand in both of his. How strong and gentle his hands are. And his eyes, so soft and kind behind his spectacles.
“Can I get you anything?”
In truth, I want nothing more at this moment than to lie here with Wes sitting beside the bed, holding my hand. He stretches his neck from side to side, and it makes an audible crack.
“Sorry,” says he, “I must have put my neck out of whack from sleeping in the chair.”
In that moment I am sensible of the impropriety of his having slept in my bedchamber. With me. I can feel my face grow hot. I wonder how he managed to get past the ladies, especially because they so clearly disapprove of him. Though their disapprobation seemed to have nothing to do with Wes’s unchaperoned presence in my rooms.
My face grows hotter. “Perhaps if you could get me another glass of water?”
Wes leaps up to fill my glass. “Listen,” he says as he hands me the glass. “I did some research online while you were sleeping”—he indicates a glowing box on a table across the room, thinner and flatter than the ones which the rose-clad ladies at Dr. Menziger’s establishment had—“and the bottom line is that no one can make you take those pills. Or go to a hospital. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
I sit up in bed. “That has a lovely sound to it.”
I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. When has anyone ever said that to me? Honor, duty, obedience. My entire life. Honor thy mother and father, even if thy mother wishes you were never born, considers you an embarrassment to the family name, compares you to a host of other, more dutiful females ad infinitum. Do your duty. To your family, your neighbors, your friends, even if you care for none of them, even if you are tired to death of the endless prattle and polite nothings and left-handed chatter that passes for “respectable” discourse. Obey your parents, your elders, your aunts and uncles, your vicar, even if he who preaches charity on Sunday says the maintenance of fatherless children should be another parish’s burden.
And all at once, I hear Anna’s words: Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now.
“There is one thing, though,” Wes says, putting his hands in his trouser pockets and biting his lip. “Do you think you might consider not saying that you don’t know your friends or that you’re someone else? Not that I think you’re putting on an act or anything; I mean, you did hit your head pretty hard—but you’re making your friends really nervous. Uncomfortable. Scared, even. And when people are scared for their friends, they start putting pressure on them. They can’t make you go back to Dr. Menziger. Or anyone else for that matter. But they’ll be on your case to do it night and day. All I’m saying is, it would go easier for you if you could just agree that you’re you.”
“But I know nothing about this woman. I would be seen as the impostor I am.”
He stands stock-still, his eyes wide. “ ‘This woman’? Now you’re scaring me. You actually don’t remember me, do you? Or Anna. Or Paula. You really truly think you’re—” He shakes his head, as if to clear it.
“That is correct.”
“Jane Mansfield.”
I nod.
“And I take it you don’t mean the screen goddess of the 1950s. I suppose that should be a relief.”
“Whatever are you talking of?”
“Where does this Jane Mansfield come from?”
“I wish you would do me the honor of attending me when I speak to you. I told you all this already. Or is there another method to your questions?”
“I know, I know. Your father’s estate is in Somerset. You play that stupid DVD till it’s worn out. You hit your head on the bottom of a pool, and all of a sudden you’ve stepped right out of the pages of Pride and Prejudice.”
“Indeed, those pleasing little theatricals resemble my life more than anything else in this place.”
“Would you please just consider telling people you’ve got temporary memory loss from the concussion? Which is, after all, the truth. At least a dozen reliable sources online mention amnesia as a possible symptom. And confusion. I’m sure Paula’s cousin mentioned that to you.”
“She also mentioned that those infernal pills would make me feel like myself again.”
“Do what you want. It’s your life.”
“It does not feel like my life.”
“It’ll pass. I promise. I’m going to sleep, okay? On the couch this time. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
I smile at him. Do what you want. It’s your life. It may not be my life, but his words may very well be the sweetest music I have ever heard.
Seven
Arooster is crowing, the same sound to which I awaken every morning, and for one delicious moment I am back in my very own bed in Mansfield House. But then I open my eyes and I am in Courtney’s bedchamber; it was the sound that deceived me.
A quick rap on the door and Wes pops his head in, and in that same moment the most gorgeous pianoforte concerto envelops me. And somehow I am not displeased to be here still.
Wes approaches the bed, bearing a tray with two tall white cups of fragrant coffee, which he places atop the bookcase.
“I thought you might like to wake up to Beethoven instead of that nightmare of an alarm clock,” he says, indicating the box with the glowing numbers that I encountered yesterday morning.
“But where are the musicians?” I cannot make out whence the music comes; it sounds as if the pianoforte, oboes, flute, and bassoons are in the room. Every note is so clear and crisp it resonates in my chest.
He looks at me quizzically, then fiddles with a small white rectangular object which is standing on the bookcase and a larger, grayish rectangle with letters and symbols all over it. The music lowers to a whisper.
“That better?” he asks.
“How did you do that?”
He hands me one of the cups. “Very funny.” He brings over the grayish object. “Apparently, your amnesia entails the simple things as well. Don’t worry; it will all come back. Here’s volume, on and off, CD, DVD, auxiliary, and so on. And—wait a sec.” He presses a button and the music stops mid-phrase, and he removes the white rectangle from its stand and brings that over, too. “Here’s how to find your music by artist, genre, album, song.”
Then he retrieves a third object, also flat and rectangular. “You do remember how to use a phone, don’t you?” He regards me skep tically. “You’re kidding, right? This should be surgically implanted in your ear. Here, this is how you can call me.” He clears his throat. “Or anyone you want to talk to.”
I can hardly follow the rapid movement of his fingers on these odd contrivances; I am so caught up in the citron freshness of this man’s scent as he perches on the bed next to me, so enchanted by the damp curls of hair on his neck as he bends his head t
o focus on what he is doing, that I am only vaguely aware of the sound of a key in a lock. In fact, I would hardly blink an eye if a host of musicians, in the flesh, were to suddenly appear in my room.
Instead, it is Paula who sails in, steaming containers of coffee in hand, resplendent in a scarlet dress, longer than yesterday’s, pink and blue tresses wild about her face, and Anna trailing behind her in an unornamented, short-sleeved gray bodice and snug white trousers.
“Good morning, darling, I’ve got your pills,” she says, waving a paper bag in my direction. “Did you sleep well?” Her toothy smile vanishes as she regards Wes and me on the bed. I pull the bedclothes up around my neck and am instantly vexed with myself. Who is Paula, with her bare arms and legs and scarlet lips that match her dress, to pass judgment upon me? Or is Wes indeed a member of the serving class, as I had first suspected, and is this the source of her disapprobation?
Impossible. Despite his coarse clothing, from what I have observed, he has most certainly comported himself as an equal with the ladies in every possible way, even attempting to assert his dominance whenever he could.
“Wes,” Paula says, “don’t you have a website to optimize or something?”
“Like you even know what you’re talking about.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Give me a break, Paula. You know Courtney asked me to stay.”
I asked Wes to stay here? Heaven only knows what else I might have said under the sway of that evil pill. My face is burning.
Paula flashes me a conciliatory smile, then turns to Wes with a softened tone. “Would you mind terribly if Anna and I took over for a while?” And turning to me, “If you think you’re up to it, it’s a typical L.A. blue sky and not too hot yet, so Anna and I would like to take you to breakfast.”
I glance over at Wes, who is watching me with what looks like a feeble attempt to affect unconcern at my answer.
Paula turns to Wes. “There are some things we need to discuss—just us girls.” The tightness returns to her tone. “Do I need to spell it out?”
Wes is looking at me instead of Paula. “If that’s what Courtney wants, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Yes,” I say, “I suppose I had better. . . .”
“Call me later if you need anything,” Wes says, placing a card on top of the bookcase. He gives me a wry grin. “Just in case you’ve wiped out all traces of my contact info.” Paula gives him an icy look and Anna raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, I folded your laundry; it’s still in the living room.” A quick wave and he is gone.
Within fifteen minutes I am washed—oh heavenly water and soap and thick downy towels—and dressed, with the help of Paula and Anna, who assist me in choosing my ensemble and fastening myself into the various garments. Today this lovely, shapely body is clad in loose white trousers and a long chemise of sheer white with little opaque spots, and underneath a surprisingly comfortable yet form-molded sleeveless bodice in a pale pink.
“One thing that knock on the head did for you is make you appreciate your beauty,” Anna says. “I don’t think I have ever seen you get dressed without rattling off a laundry list of complaints.”
“A pity, that.” It seems the owner of this body has little appreciation for it. Curiously I have not, until this moment, thought of who Courtney Stone actually might be. Or where she might be, if she has vacated this body and left it for me. If my soul has transmigrated to her body, then has her soul transmigrated to mine? Or—
“Dear Lord.” I cannot believe what I am seeing in the bookcase in front of me: a book lying on its side, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. And shelved neatly behind it, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Emma by Jane Austen . . .
“Sweetie?”
“Are you okay?”
“I—yes, I am perfectly well. Would you be so kind as to allow me a few minutes? I assure you I am well.”
Paula and Anna exchange glances, Anna shrugs. “Sure, darling,” Paula says. “We’ll be right out here.”
I close the door behind them and remove Pride and Prejudice from the bookcase, which is packed with books, so much so that they are piled every which way and are two deep in places. This must be—is it—there cannot be two books with that title—yet I have never known the name of the author, who is simply referred to on the title page of my copy as “the author of ‘Sense and Sensibility. ’ ” I turn to the first page: It is a truth universally acknowledged . . . yes, it is indeed the same book. And in this bookcase are not only Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, the only two novels I have ever known to have been written by this author, this Miss Austen, but there is a third, Emma. And—could it be—a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth novel, Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, Persuasion. All by Jane Austen. Six novels in all! What an embarrassment of riches!
I turn to the title pages of the other four novels—they were published after 1813, which is why I do not know of them. . . .
“Courtney?”
“A moment, please.” I cannot wait to return here and read every one of these books—these curious, future-world things that are complete in a single volume and bound in paper instead of boards or leather, but nonetheless precious treasures.
Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now. I do not know how I have come to be in this time, in this place, in this body. But I do know that any place where there are six novels by the author of Pride and Prejudice must be a very special sort of heaven.
Eight
Now that I am able to keep my seat in Paula’s car without hav ing to grip anyone’s arm, I am at leisure to observe the world passing by at an astonishing pace. There are men, women, and children of a variety of complexions going about their business, a few walking in and out of shops, most riding in cars, laughing, frowning, talking, silent—they are brown and white and black, they are Asian and European and even African, all apparently in a state of perfect freedom and equanimity. I thought this must be so when I saw a couple of African ladies at Dr. Menziger’s establishment, but now I know that slavery itself, and not just the trade, is finally at an end. This is a most delightful aspect to the world in which I find myself.
Whenever I manage to tear my eyes from the wonders of the streets, I observe Paula closely, for I would like to understand how she drives. All I can glean from her movements is that driving involves depressing something on the floor with her foot as well as maneuvering a wheel with her hands.
“Why can’t they synchronize these stupid lights?” she says as she brings the car to a sudden stop at a crossroads, and it is then that I notice a bank of circular lights suspended over the road and alternating red, green, and yellow. As with the other lights of this world, I cannot make out the source of the illumination.
Another curiosity are the signs. They are everywhere. Big signs. Enormous signs. One promising relief for aching feet. Another the size of a workingman’s cottage and featuring a scantily clad woman, twenty feet tall, looking inside a large white illuminated box. Some of the printed messages are taller than a person. And mostly unintelligible. “Senior Living.” “Hotter Than Hot.” “More Minutes.” “Half the Carbs.”
Paula brings her car to a final stop, and we alight before a bustling establishment crowded with people dining alfresco and many more at tables inside.
It appears to be a public breakfast, for ladies as well as gentlemen are being served, yet there is no shrubbery or promenade or anything resembling a pleasure garden. Curious indeed—a public breakfast taking place in an establishment which appears to exist expressly for the purpose of providing its guests with food and drink. The platters of food being carried from the kitchen by a battalion of white-aproned waiters, male and female, tell me that this is no mere tea shop.
Nor does it appear to be a chophouse, for it has not the filth of the places my brother frequents, the horrors of which he delights in retailing to his fastidious sister. No gravy stains or blotches of grease on the spotless white tablecloths, n
o litter of bones on the floor. It is most certainly not an inn or a hotel, for the single story seems wholly occupied by tables and chairs. And it is far grander than I imagine any tavern would be.
Most remarkable is that there are as many ladies dining as there are gentlemen, and no chophouse, let alone a tavern, would serve a lady.
A waiter appears at our table. “Ready to order?” he says, and I realize I have not even looked at the bill of fare, which Anna and Paula are perusing, and which is the length of an epic poem. The cover refers to the establishment as a “restaurant,” in the manner of the French.
“Ooh, that looks good,” says Anna as another waiter rushes by carrying an armload of enormous, steaming platters to a neighboring table.
She and Paula choose their meals, and when Paula suggests I have what she’s having, I agree, as the sheer number of choices is overwhelming. Indeed, the variety of dishes listed within these pages exceeds what I imagine even the prince regent’s cooks, let alone a mere genteel eating-house, would be capable of producing for the most festive occasion.
“So,” says Anna, the waiter having been dispatched, “what’s the deal with you and Wes?”
“I couldn’t believe you asked him to stay with you instead of us, that you called him from the hospital instead of us,” says Paula. “Who watched over you, took you out, wiped your tears, held your head while you puked up your guts, listened to you no matter how late it was and whether or not I was in the middle of production or whether or not Anna had to be at a meeting at some ungodly hour?”
She points at her chest. “We did. And who lied to cover for Frank when he was sneaking around with Miss Arsenic-in-your-wedding-cake? Wes, that’s who. Wes, who’s all I’m-so-sorry-Courtney and I-didn’t-mean-to-hurt-anyone and all that bullshit.”
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 5