April collected Holly’s chin in her hand, bringing her face around to look her straight in the eyes. She moved Holly’s chin this way and that, as if examining her for flaws, checking her vital signs. ‘You look better,’ she finally said.
Susie Sioux held up her JCPenney shopping bag and pulled out a white T-shirt with black shells printed over it, showing it to Holly.
‘You bought that?’ Holly asked.
‘Yeah. It’s cute, don’t you think?’
Holly felt all that anxiety, all that angst, evaporate from her body. All her suspicions, wrong. She’d been on edge, worried about whether Trinity had written back, and her brain was scrambling everything it saw.
They were waiting at the bus stop when April pulled up her skirt to reveal a second skirt underneath. ‘By the way, I got this,’ she said, looking thrilled with herself.
‘And I got these,’ Heather said, looking down at a brand-new pair of sandals she’d simply strapped on and walked out wearing. ‘Sooz, show her what you got.’
‘A little something for my collection,’ said Susie Sioux, opening her schoolbag to reveal the chunky black belt that Holly had seen her pocketing earlier.
5.21 pm
Holly looked down at the typewriter on her desk and placed her fingers on the keys.
All day, her brain had been consumed with trying to keep up with the faces that swarmed in front of her, the conversations between friends, the politics of the classroom, the shoplifting at the mall. But now that she was back home, getting a letter from Trinity rose back up to number-one priority. Nothing had come through.
‘Come on, Trinity,’ she said, banging on the top of the typewriter as if to wake it up. ‘Brother Orange – either of you! Write to me. I just want to know what’s going on.’
Yesterday, when the letter from Trinity had come through and she’d replied, it had felt like they were typing to each other in real time. But now that she thought about it, there was nothing to suggest that the letters were coming through as they were being written. Trinity could have typed that letter whenever. It could have been inside Brother Orange, waiting, since before the séance, even.
Which would make sense, now that Holly thought about it. The séance had prompted the start of Trinity’s letter to appear – Fuck off! – as if it could no longer contain her fury. As if it was trying to flag Holly’s attention. But then it had stopped – maybe because there wasn’t any paper in there? Maybe because it needed Holly sitting on her chair in front of it? Who knew? Holly was a novice when it came to this whole communicate-with-other-person-through-a-self-writing-typewriter business.
If Trinity didn’t know a reply was coming through, she wouldn’t necessarily have gone back to Brother Orange to check in. Maybe you needed to be near the typewriter to get a letter through? Maybe you needed to hold a séance to trigger a letter? Maybe Trinity had smashed the typewriter to pieces, just like she’d threatened. Maybe she’d never receive Holly’s letter. Maybe Holly would be stuck in this life forever. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe maybemaybemaybemaybemaybemaybe.
She needed to distract herself. She couldn’t force a letter out of the typewriter. Thinking about it over and over was sending her into a downward spiral.
She went over to lie on the bed, her back to the desk. She thought about the maths homework she was supposed to have done. That shouldn’t be too hard. She’d always been good at maths. Maths and art, opposing subjects, her two favourites. She would cook up a little something to hand in to O’Farrell tomorrow, along with the advice that he shouldn’t call her Legs anymore. She sat back up, cross-legged, and dragged her Pan Am bag over. Took the maths folder and textbook out, balanced the folder on her knees and started reading.
‘Draw pie charts to represent the following data,’ she read aloud. She loved pie charts. They were so … visual. ‘Twenty-four people divided into five different jobs: eight doctors, two nurses, six lawyers, two police officers, six teachers. Write the percentage of people who hold each job.’ That should be easy enough. Although, how did you work it out? She hadn’t done maths in years, not since Year 12, and as it turned out, she hadn’t retained as much of it as she would have thought. Nothing was coming to her. There must be a formula she was supposed to be using. She flipped through the maths textbook but struggled to find anything of use.
She pushed the maths books away and decided to tackle English instead. My Name Is Asher Lev was plonked on top of a pile of other books in the bookcase, the spine suspiciously pristine. It seemed Trinity hadn’t even bothered reading the book. Holly started reading. Two paragraphs in, she set the book down.
She couldn’t settle. The words were floating, the sentences didn’t hold together.
She reached over and picked up the acoustic guitar that was propped beside the wardrobe, her focus on those six strings taking all other thoughts away, the sounds she produced calming her entire body down. But then something made her glance at the typewriter. Not a noise so much as a movement. A fluttering that caught her attention. If she had to describe it, she’d say the keys seemed to be simmering, like a pot on the stove.
She put the guitar back down and moved over to the desk, gingerly touched the keys – they felt warm. She typed a single random letter just to get it started:
O—
And the typewriter took off, same as yesterday, clattering at a million miles an hour, savagery tearing out of the orange enamelled body.
Oh yeah, yeah, you’re going to FIX MY LIFE?!? Forget it!!! Your life’s gonna be well and truly trashed if you don’t fix things NOW! I’ve seen your house I’ve seen all your space age stuff obviously you’re a scientist and you made this happen. I don’t care how you did it, or why you did it, or how you used my typewriter to do it, but I’m telling you right now, you better fix things back the way they were, old lady. NOW.
The good news was that it appeared Trinity had finally received Holly’s letter.
And don’t you dare touch my life. Don’t touch a single hair on my life. It’s perfect the way it is. In fact, maybe I’m here to fix your life you ever thought of that? And I’m gonna fix it, real good, unless you SWAP US BACK! Some news: your work rang on some weird little phone that I found in your tote just now, and they asked where I was today, and now that I think about it, going to your work and doing your job is just one of the ways I can FIX YOUR LIFE. So I’m warning you, you better swap us back right now. Right NOW. And you can fuck right off with doing seances with my friends. You’re not to go anywhere near them. Not Susie Sioux or April or Lewis or my family or anything in my life, I swear.
Suddenly the typewriter slid away from Holly and banged against the wall under the window as if it had been shoved. As if, by the sheer force of her outrage, Trinity’s push from the future had acted on Brother Orange here in Holly’s present.
And then, a cavernous silence.
Holly brought the typewriter back towards her and re-read the letter, trying to settle the shaking that was vibrating through her body, boiling her blood. The anger Trinity was directing at her felt like it was coming not only from Brother Orange, but from inside this very body itself.
Holly stood up and began to pace in front of the desk. She had to work out how to respond. She needed to calm Trinity down. She needed to think.
Her feet carried her downstairs and out the front door. She started walking the block, a walk that soon turned into a run. The rhythm of her feet hitting the pavement, heel toe, heel toe, was such a simple thing to focus on. Each step propelled her body, and the coldness of the air in her throat burned as she inhaled. She’d never been much of a runner, always more of a swimmer before swapping over to karate in her thirties, but for this girl, this body, running was her jam. The loping gait felt effortless. There was the sense that she could run for hours. And the energy inside this body. Holly had forgotten how it was to be sixteen, to feel alive, awake, switched on, day after day after day.
Holly felt a desire to be let off the leash. Not to let Trinity
off the leash, but herself. All these years, she’d tried to do what she thought others had wanted from her. But why? What for? It hadn’t made any difference to anyone. All her life she’d constrained her soul, tied it up tight, choosing the safe options every time. A teaching degree instead of fine art, Melbourne instead of Paris. But now, as she experienced the joy of this body in flight, she realised that she’d always done wrong by herself. This girl knew how to live. How to feel. Even the letter Trinity had typed in reply to Holly’s, even the abuse she’d hurled, showed that at least she was feeling stuff. Living life. Being herself.
By the time Holly got back to her street (Trinity’s street), she was sweating and hot, panting, tired, but she knew exactly what she wanted to type in reply.
When she walked in the back door, the mom was at the stove, putting spaghetti into a big pot.
‘You’ve been for a run,’ the mom said. ‘How was it?’
‘It was good.’
‘It’s been a while – how’s your fitness?’
Holly laughed. ‘Fine.’
‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’
‘I’ll set the table,’ Holly said and registered the mom’s eyebrows shoot up at the offer. ‘I’ve just gotta type something up and then I’ll be straight back down. Is that okay?’
‘Sure. I’d really appreciate that.’
Holly ran back up the stairs, rolled in a fresh piece of paper and started typing.
Trinity. Please, just hang on a sec. Everything’s exactly the same in your life as when you left it. I haven’t done anything. You have a lovely life, and I didn’t mean I was going to change anything. I was just trying to figure out a reason for the swap to have happened. Anyway, never mind. I’m not here to fix your life. Forget I ever said it.
Maybe she should mention the guy who’d picked Trinity up that first afternoon and tried to put her in his car. Check if he might be the reason for the soul swap? Although anything that sounded like she was going to ‘fix’ things was likely to set Trinity off. No, this wasn’t the time for information-sharing – this was damage control, pure and simple.
You seem to think I organised this swap somehow, but I promise, I didn’t. I’m just as confused as you are. I’m not a scientist. I’m an ordinary art teacher. Nothing like this has ever happened in my life.
We’re in this together. You and me, kiddo, she nearly typed, but decided it might come off as patronising.
I also think it’s really important that you don’t destroy the typewriter. I know you’re angry, but if Brother Orange can’t type, there’s every chance we won’t be able to communicate with each other anymore, and then maybe we will stay this way forever, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want that.
Good point. Important to make that clear. You want things to go back to the way they were? Pull your head in.
You said my work rang? Maybe you should call in sick tomorrow. The phone number is in my mobile under S for St Luke’s. (I’m guessing you’ve figured out how to use my phone in the same way I seem to know how to use things in your life, kind of instinctively.) Maybe it’s best that you don’t leave the house.
How about you stay inside …
Preferably with the blinds closed.
… and I’ll try to sort things out for both of us. There’s plenty of food in the fridge. And the freezer. I always make my meals a week in advance, so you won’t starve!
Always good to end with some friendly humour.
I’ll write again tomorrow and see how you’re feeling.
Don’t leave the house, whatever you do.
Bye!
Cheery! Bright! I’m your friend! We’re in this together! Calm the fuck down!
Holly
6.12 pm
Holly twisted the spaghetti around her fork. The empty tin of bolognaise sauce was still on the bench. She couldn’t believe how badly this family ate, especially seeing as the mom worked in health. But actually, it tasted a lot better than you’d expect. Salty and flavoursome and no doubt full of dodgy fats.
‘So how’s this for a coincidence,’ the mom said. ‘I forgot to tell you. On Friday, I was assisting in the delivery of a little leap-year baby, same as you …’
Holly stared at the mom. She’d been so busy fumbling her way through all the trips and hazards of living a stranger’s life and figuring out how to fix everything that she hadn’t given any thought to the baby-her who would have been born last week. Until this moment.
‘… and this morning I was checking her chart,’ the mom continued, ‘and I noticed that she’s Rhnull. Same blood type as you. Same birthday, same blood type. Even born ten weeks prem. What are the chances?’
Holly could barely swallow past the lump in her throat. Most people hadn’t heard of Rhnull, or ‘golden blood’, because it was so rare. But anyone who had it knew all about it. Only 0.0000006 per cent of the population were Rhnull. Forty-three people in the whole world.
Holly had grown up knowing she had golden blood. That she’d been born ten weeks premature. A leap-year baby. In Los Angeles.
What were the chances indeed?
‘Obviously we should have some in reserve for bub,’ the mom was going on. ‘So if you come to the hospital tomorrow, we’ll get a blood donation organised. Dad can drop you off after your driving lesson.’
This was impossible. It was definitely too much of a coincidence. But Holly couldn’t not ask. ‘What’s the baby’s name?’
The mom looked at her and laughed. ‘Trinity. Her name’s Trinity, same as you. I mean, talk about coincidence!’
Holly felt her shoulders release the tension. It wasn’t her. It was someone else’s leap-year baby. And then the mom laughed again.
‘No, I’m kidding. That would be too much of a coincidence. Her name’s Holly.’
Holly’s chest felt constricted and painful, like a fist was gripping her heart and squeezing tight.
‘Like my doll,’ Loolah said.
The mom nodded. ‘Yes. Exactly.’
‘Maybe I should give it to her?’ Loolah wondered. ‘I’m getting a bit too old for dolls.’
The Holly Hobbie under the stairs at her house. Had Loolah given it to her?
‘I feel sorry for the mom,’ Trinity’s mom was saying. ‘She’s only young, and it’s never easy having your baby in intensive care. And the whole rare-blood thing makes it ten times more stressful. But on top of everything, she’s really struggling because she’s on her own.’
‘Because she’s from Australia,’ Holly said, mainly to herself. Everything was clicking into place like balls in a slot machine.
The mom looked across at her. ‘Yes …’ she said.
‘Whoa,’ Loolah said.
Holly looked from one to the other, knowing an explanation was needed. ‘Well, that’s what you said earlier, wasn’t it?’
‘No,’ the mom said.
‘No,’ Loolah said.
‘Yes. You definitely said she was from Australia. Otherwise, how would I know?’
And the mom and Loolah had no good comeback.
Frances and Nathan had met in Morocco and fallen in love, like in all good backpacking romances. They’d exchanged addresses, then continued travelling separately. It wasn’t until months later that Frances realised maybe she hadn’t had a period in a while. That she was putting on weight. She’d done an over-the-counter pregnancy test (positive) and had gone to a Dutch doctor only to discover she was nearly six months gone. Panicking slightly, she’d booked herself a flight home to Australia, but decided she had time to stop off via America first. By the time she’d arrived in Los Angeles, she was nearly seven months along. She’d turned up at the address Nathan had given her, where she learnt that he’d fallen off a balcony in Whistler a month earlier and died. Frances had gone into labour right there on the doorstep and had to be rushed to hospital. Her baby was born on 29 February 1980 in Los Angeles, ten weeks premature, a little girl called Holly with Rhnull blood.
Little baby-her had been delivered by T
rinity’s mom and was in a hospital somewhere in this sprawling city. And tomorrow Holly was going to donate blood to her very own baby-self.
That was the connection. The final piece of the puzzle. The life she’d been sent to fix – it wasn’t Trinity’s. It was baby-hers.
She’d been sent her to change her whole entire future.
Day 5
TUESDAY, 4 MARCH 1980
7.23 am
Lewis sat at the breakfast bench, shovelling cereal into his mouth. ‘That was a killer catch yesterday,’ he said.
Holly nodded. ‘Yeah, no, you’re right. It seriously was.’ She didn’t even feel like she was bragging, because after all, it wasn’t even her body. And it was a killer catch. She was only calling it as she saw it.
‘It’s not too late for you to start training again, you know,’ he said. ‘They only started back a couple of weeks ago.’
She wondered why Trinity had given up softball. And running. It didn’t make sense. The feeling of that ball smacking into her hand, the thrill of the catch, the joy of running on the pavement. These were all things this girl got a buzz out of. But for some reason she wasn’t doing them anymore.
‘How’d you go with the rest of your homework, by the way?’ Lewis went on. ‘Dog didn’t eat it?’
‘Don’t have a dog. Do I?’ Holly wondered if maybe there was a dog hidden somewhere that she hadn’t noticed yet.
‘That hasn’t stopped you before.’
Holly registered the sarcasm but chose to ignore it. ‘I pretty much answered none of the maths questions—’
‘“Maths”?’ Lewis said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Math questions,’ she said. American American. ‘And I haven’t even finished reading Asher Lev yet, so, yeah …’ ‘You should have come over last night. I would have helped you. Alternatively, we could have tried to find you a dog.’
Holly laughed.
She like the way his mouth turned up at the edges, like he was constantly on the verge of laughing out loud. The mischievousness that sparkled in his eyes. The way she sometimes caught him looking at her. She had to remind herself that she was old enough to be his mother, and that even to be thinking such thoughts was completely grotesque. Besides, they were just friends. She was sure of it.
It's Not You, It's Me Page 9