“That’s it? That’s all I get from my gorgeous baby mama?”
I open my mouth to reply, but he breaks the distance and places his hands on either side of my face and pulls me close, so that his lips barely touch mine. My body ignites underneath his touch, and I break the distance and press my lips upon his. What can I say? My body knows how to be intimate with him. I can feel it in the way my heart hammers against my chest, and the way my lips curl up into a smile.
His mouth is soft, and his tongue explores mine with familiarity—pushing the boundaries of what is appropriate for a goodbye kiss. His thumb traces my cheek, and then he bites my lower lip, and I moan. Again, my body responds without a thought. He pulls away, and I’m left wanting more from the man I barely know.
“I’ll see you at three,” he whispers into my ear, and then he pulls away and winks, placing his hands behind his head cockily. “Have a nice day, mi amor.”
“You too.” I open the door and hop out, my legs a bit unsteady. As my breath forms white puffs in front of my face, I look up at the red building.
Graton Village Cheese.
Holy shit, dreams do come true—I work in a cheese shop! I walk away and wave to Sebastian, and he grins from within the Jeep, his megawatt smile visible from where I stand. I would prefer if Sebastian left, leaving me to my own devices. Also, I have no fucking clue what to do next. However, he stays put, and I realize he’s waiting for me to get inside. That’s kind of sweet.
I turn around and walk towards the door. I reach out and go to open it, but it slams against the deadbolt. It’s locked. Fuck.
Think, Marlin. I look around, and when I look back over at Sebastian, his eyebrows are scrunched together in confusion. He holds his hands up, as if to ask what’s up?
I reach into my purse, and I find a rather large keychain. Great. Now I just have to figure out which key fits. I try the large gold one first, and of course it doesn’t work. I keep going down the line, and finally, the seventh key works. I turn and wave to Sebastian again before pushing the door open. He nods and begins to pull out. He must think I’m batshit crazy…
Once inside, I fumble for the light, feeling along the interior of the wall until my finger grazes the switch. I flick it up, and the room illuminates slowly, one section of fluorescent lighting at a time. Once all the lights are on, I look around in awe.
On top of what appears to be a very large cheese-tasting counter in the center of the room, shelves and aisles line the outer sections, filled with maple syrup, maple cookies, crackers, jam, bread, dried salami, and anything else a quaint little cheese shop in rural Vermont might have.
I walk over to the counter, peering into the cheese case. It’s empty—of course it is. Who would keep cheese, even refrigerated cheese, out all night? I tap my finger against my lip, overwhelmed with the fact that I am probably the only person here this morning, and I have no idea what to do or how to run a cheese shop.
I set my purse down on the counter near the old-fashioned cash register, and I rifle through the papers tucked in the slot between the register and the cheese case. None of the information is helpful—it’s all permits, licenses, and employee information. I open the large filing cabinet underneath the counter, containing files on each employee. I find my file and scan it quickly, pulling out my application.
Marlin Winters
[email protected]
307-566-5555
1133 Hill St., #3A
Brattleboro, VT 05301
Emergency contact: Sebastian Juares (boyfriend) 802-341-7800
Employed since June, 2010
I look over my salary information, but that doesn’t help me right now. It occurs to me that I’ve been working here for almost five years. In my real life, I graduated from San Diego State University in June of 2010—the same month I started working here. Moreover, I vaguely remember Sebastian mentioning that we’d known each other for seven years, and I’m positive I didn’t meet him in San Diego.
I place the files back in their proper place, and I dig through my purse for my phone. It’s just after nine in the morning, which means it’s just after seven in Wyoming. I hope my mom is awake. I find her contact in my phone, and I’m relieved that her number has not changed. It rings three times before she answers.
“Marlin?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern. “Is everything all right?”
“What, I can’t call my own mother and say good morning?” I laugh.
She’s silent on the other end for a beat, and then she exhales loudly. “Of course you can. It’s just early, so I thought something was the matter.”
“Oh, no, everything’s fine. Sorry to worry you. And sorry for calling so early.”
“How is everything? Are you at the shop? You know, I was reading that women who stand a lot at their jobs are much more likely to have uncomplicated births.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” I feel a wave a relief wash over me at the familiarity of her voice. While everything else is so different, at least she’s the same old mom I know and love. And it’s nice to be able to talk to her about this alien inside of me. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I’m pregnant. I never had any time to get used to the idea like a normal person.
“How are you feeling? Any morning sickness yet?”
“Night sickness,” I answer, thinking about the penne from last night. My stomach clenches with nausea just thinking about red sauce. “Pasta is now a food aversion,” I add, knowing she wants as much information as possible.
“I’m sure Sebastian is taking very good care of you,” my mom says, her voice warm. It surprises me. She’s never shown any warmth towards Charlie, and I suppose I never realized it until now.
“Yeah, about that… Mom, there’s a reason I called.”
“Is everything okay with you and Sebastian?” she asks suddenly, panicked. I stifle a laugh.
“Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just…” I look up at the ceiling, trying to think of how I’m going to phrase this without sounding crazy. “I woke up last night and I felt… odd. I’ve been having dreams about San Clemente, and Charlie, and I guess I just needed reassurance that this is normal,” I lie. It’s so not normal, but how else can I get the answers that I need?
“San Clemente? Charlie?” she asks, and I close my eyes. She has no idea who Charlie is, and I suppose I never lived in San Clemente in this life.
“I don’t know. Charlie was a college friend. From San Diego.”
“Marlin,” my mom whispers, “what are you talking about?”
“San Diego State,” I reply. “Where I went to college?”
“Honey, you didn’t go to college in San Diego.”
“Well, then, where did I go?” I cry, suddenly frustrated. I fall back against the counter, feeling defeated. I know nothing about this life. Am I having a mental breakdown?
“Marlin,” my mom repeats, and I hear her walk downstairs. She always changes rooms when the conversation becomes serious. It’s like she doesn’t want to concern my dad, who is a known meddler, especially when it comes to me. Once, he overheard my mom talking to me about period cramps, and a day later, a box of Midol and some chocolates arrived at my doorstep. “You’re worrying me.”
Those three words ground me, and I straighten. Obviously, calling my mom for answers was the wrong call. I eye the computer sitting on the counter.
“It’s nothing, Mom. I’m just having weird dreams. I was just wondering if that’s normal when you’re pregnant. I must not have been very clear—I was babbling.”
“Oh,” she breathes, relieved. “Yes. Those dreams are very normal.”
“Okay, good. I should go. I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, honey.”
I hang up before she can ask me anything else, and I switch on the computer. It’s an older desktop PC, something I haven’t seen since the mid-2000s. Once it fires up, I log into Facebook.
The password you entered is incorrect. Please try again (make s
ure your caps lock is off).
Of course. I log into my email with ease. My lack of imagination for new passwords is paying off. I request a new password from Facebook, and once I reset it, I log in. I scroll through my feed, and most of the people I see are unfamiliar. Of course they would be—I had a close-knit group of friends at San Diego State, so if I never went, we never met.
That thought startles me—how many other things are different?
I go to my profile and look at the ‘About’ section. My birthday, name, and email are the same. It says I work at Graton Village Cheese (2010-present), engaged to Sebastian Juares, live in Brattleboro, Vermont, and studied Liberal Arts at California State University, Long Beach. Oh, and I spent a year studying abroad in Florence, Italy.
I’m pissed I don’t remember that. I’ve always dreamt of going to Italy.
I scroll through my pictures. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m still shocked to see years and years of me. I have no recollection of any of it. For the last couple of years, it’s all pictures of Sebastian, me, and a few select friends. Emma, the friend from my phone, makes several appearances. She’s a tall, pale, pretty redhead. Jeb also makes a couple of appearances, and by way of some Facebook sleuthing, I see that he’s actually married to Emma (since August of 2013). Good to know.
It feels weird that I have to fill in the details of my life, but it’s my only option right now.
I go back even further, and I see the college pictures I don’t remember taking—the memories I don’t remember making. I go back to my album from Florence, and I’m surprised to find Sebastian in most of them. It appears that we met there. I click on his profile, and sure enough, he’s from Brattleboro and he went to Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts from 2005-2009—one year ahead of me. He was born on April 4, 1986, making him a year and a half older than me. He works as an art teacher at Brattleboro Union High School.
Slowly but surely, I start to piece my life together. Instead of San Diego, I went to college in Long Beach. Knowing Charlie makes sense, then—he went to Long Beach for two years before transferring to San Diego State.
I missed my whole college experience. I missed… the trauma. Everything. Though it’s strange, I’m glad this Marlin never had to experience that. She went on to lead a normal life.
Sebastian and I have been dating for seven years. I click on my life events. He proposed on January 1, 2014… over a year ago.
Sheesh. That’s a copious amount of information for one morning. I start to log out, but then my curiosity gets the best of me. I type in Charlie’s name, and to my surprise, we’re actually friends on Facebook. He looks different—chubbier, happier. He’s married to a woman named Elizabeth Pierce, and when I click on one of their wedding pictures, I feel a burning, envious sensation in the pit of my stomach.
She’s wearing a Vera Wang wedding dress that probably cost more than I make in three months. Her long blond hair and lithe, toned body make me wonder if she’s an OC native—her perfect tan gives it away. I click through the rest of their wedding album, and I’m shocked to see a picture of her laughing with Linda and Perry Chapman. Linda has a hand on her arm, and Perry is looking down at her lovingly. I don’t think he’s ever smiled at me, let alone looked at me adoringly. A couple more minutes of Facebook stalking allows me to paint a broader picture. She’s originally from Laguna Beach, and her parents are friends of the Chapmans.
I log out and slam the mouse down on the mouse pad. I can’t believe Charlie is married. I bet Mr. and Mrs. Fancy-Pants Chapman are delighted she comes from a pedigreed family. I cross my arms and glare at the floor. I don’t know why I’m so offended.
That explains everything, though. I feel betrayed. I know there’s no use in feeling that way, but seeing Charlie with someone else—happier, more himself—makes my throat drop heavily into my stomach with an uncomfortable realization. Maybe we’re not meant to be together? And maybe, just maybe, both of us are happier without the other.
I close my eyes and concentrate, hoping to somehow be brought back to my real life in San Clemente. I miss my yoga studio. I miss my car. I miss my friends. I miss Charlie, even though the bastard is married to Lauren Conrad’s doppelgänger. I miss the sun, the beach, and my townhouse. All of that is familiar. All of this is… what is it, exactly? It’s not a dream. It’s too intense to be a dream, and I’ve had some pretty intense dreams. Though every time I try and think back to last night, I get that same dull, heavy feeling in the back of my skull. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I try and will myself out of a nightmare.
I just don’t understand why this is happening. Maybe I’m dead. Perhaps I have a brain tumor, or maybe I’m just going crazy. It’s possible this is my real life. I never thought about it like that. Maybe this is just some weird pregnancy symptom, and my life in Southern California is all made up.
But then why don’t I remember anything from this life?
I turn back to the computer and type in “alternate universes.” A ton of stuff comes up.
Parallel universes exist exactly like our universe. These universes are all related to ours; indeed, they branch off from ours, and our universe is branched off of others. Within these parallel universes, our wars have had different outcomes than the ones we know. This thought boggles the mind, and yet, it is still comprehensible. Notions of parallel universes or dimensions that resemble our own have appeared in works of science fiction and have been used as explanations for metaphysics. Scientific findings suggest that there are other laws at work in the universe, operating on a deeper level than the ones we know.
I log out of the computer, and I lean on the counter, cradling my head in my arms. I suddenly feel very sick, and I make it to the bathroom just in time to vomit up the nice breakfast that Sebastian made me. Once I finish cleaning up, I shut the door, go to the counter, and try to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to run a cheese shop.
Chapter Six
FOUR days ago
I arch my back slightly, letting the downward dog posture stretch my sore hamstrings. My ponytail brushes the floor, and I feel strong, balanced, and centered.
“Now come back up,” I say, my voice quiet over the tinkling music. “And raise your hands above your head.” I stand and bring my arms up, finishing the sun salutation. “Deep breaths,” I add, taking three consecutive breaths through my nose. “Namaste,” I finish. My class repeats my words, and then the end-of-class shuffle happens—everyone clambering and rushing to leave first, forgetting the peace from just a moment ago.
I roll my mat up and throw on a pair of flip-flops. I pull the elastic out of my hair and shake my head. I don’t notice the lone student standing in the neutral tadasana position until I turn around. My eyes wander over his body—basketball shorts, a tight T-shirt, short brown hair, and green eyes. He looks like the kind of guy who was the star quarterback in high school.
“Have a good night,” I call out, and as I walk out of the studio, I sense him following me.
“Hey, Marlin?” he asks, jogging after me. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet. “Thanks for another awesome class,” he says, and then he raises his head and looks up at me.
“Sure thing,” I reply, and I look over at Sia, the receptionist. She raises her eyebrows but continues to stare at her computer screen.
“Would you want to grab a coffee sometime?” he adds, and the desperation is evident.
“I’m sorry, I have a boyfriend.” I give him a smile.
“Okay, gotcha,” he says, giving me two thumbs up and a thin smile. “Welp, have a good night!” He turns and leaves, and once he’s out the door, I sigh loudly.
“He was cute,” Sia says, her long, fake fingernails clacking against the keyboard. I don’t know why, but her fingernails freak me out.
“He was cute,” I say, agreeing. “But I love Charlie.”
“Good for you,” she says indifferently. She goes back to typing, and I walk to my car with goose bumps,
thinking of her nails.
I drive home slowly, and I sit in my idling car for a few minutes before going inside. I’m sure Charlie is plunked down on the couch with a beer and a bag of chips by now anyways. He won’t notice that I’m a few minutes late. I pull one leg up into my chest and close my eyes, mentally preparing myself for walking inside.
How sad is that? I know it’s not normal to dread going home, especially when the man you supposedly love is sitting on the couch. But something’s been irking me lately, and I can’t pinpoint what it is. I feel a tear slip down my cheek, and I wipe it away quickly.
I think of the man from my studio and what it would feel like to kiss him, to touch him, to be with someone other than Charlie. Charlie is all I know—we met in college, and I was a virgin. We never had that firecracker chemistry, which I guess is a damn shame, but there are worse things.
I get out of my car and walk inside, and sure enough, Charlie is sitting there, drinking a beer, and eating a bag of vinegar chips: the most disgusting flavor ever.
“Hey,” I say, setting my bag down on the floor and kicking off my flip-flops. I try not to sound irritated that he’s eating an hour before dinnertime.
“Hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off of the TV.
“I’m going to go shower,” I add, needing more alone time.
He just nods, and I climb the stairs quickly, throwing my shirt over my head and dropping it into the laundry hamper in the hallway. I walk over to the full-length mirror and assess my topless body. I stand in different positions, wondering if I’m ever going to get rid of my stomach pooch. I’m not exactly crazy about my weight. I eat healthy, and I exercise, therefore fitting in with the whole healthy is the new skinny mantra that Southern California has adopted recently.
I get undressed and step into the shower. When the water starts to warm, I sit down in the corner, and I cry. My hands are itching for the razor. I turn my palms over and study the white lines left from last time—a month ago. A familiar detached sadness fills my entire being.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 5