Some Laneys Died: A Skipping Sideways Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  He stares at me for a full minute, licking his lips, swallowing.

  “How about this?” I ask. “You don’t have to say anything. If I name something you haven’t seen in your mind, shake your head. Could be a dream or you’re just fantasizing or just an image in your brain. OK?”

  He breathes heavily, head tilted toward me, eyes jittery, but never focused on my face for long. He nods.

  “Have you seen this? I’m naked sitting in a chair, maybe one from the kitchen, with my arms and legs tied. I can’t move, can’t close my legs.” He blinks quickly.

  “Remember, shake your head if you haven’t seen it. We’re playing a sex game. You tie a scarf around my eyes. I warn you that whatever you do to me, I’ll do back.” I pause and lift my brows. Beads of sweat have pushed out of his forehead. He grits his teeth. “You have something in your hand as you move toward me.”

  Eddie bolts out of my room. He’s imagined that scene. I know it! How could the same scene appear in both our minds? It’s not in any movie we’ve watched. Or books we’ve read. It’s not a common teen sex fantasy.

  It’s in both our minds because another version of each of us did it to each other. An electron can be in many places at the same time. That’s been proven over and over. This chair fantasy exists in multiple places at the same time, in the world of Eddie and Laney 2.0 and in each of our minds now.

  Where do fantasies come from anyway? Or ideas or dreams? At least some of the things that randomly pop into our mind have to come from other universes with multiple versions of us.

  Which also means their minds are also affected by what we do.

  Unless one of our alternates dies. Me bleeding to death in Garrett’s truck sees nothing, but the me who jumped out of his truck before the wreck is traumatized by being groped and spinning around and around, fastened to a seat. She never experienced the wreck, but she has nightmares about the event.

  The girl who stayed with her mom at the lake can’t understand why she sees flashes of her father naked. Or hears him having sex with another woman.

  And the Mom who didn’t decide to work on her pool game sees Dad and Gibbs having sex, maybe even playing with their little girl who looks remarkably like me.

  Do I really look like Gibbs?

  I grab my phone and text. Hey, Gibbs. I’ll call you after I eat dinner, but in the meantime, can you send me a photo of yourself? Anything current. And if you have something from high school, I’d love to see that, too. I’ll shoot some of me and send them to you.

  I don’t take selfies often. And I don’t do Instagram or Facebook. I open Photos and see what I have.

  The first twenty pictures are dark, with blurred faces, one with smoke rising, illuminated by decorative tree lights, one through a wire fence with a blue pool in the background. All the product of being stoned, walking around Marissa’s neighborhood.

  I scroll through more pics and find Marissa with unbuttoned shirt, flashing her boob, and Kaitlyn trying to look way cool flashing gang signs.

  Farther up are pics of Kaitlyn and Marissa in various stages of undress, playing with vibrators. Closeups of various body parts. And then a few of me—grimacing, screaming, spent with half open eyes above a smile—blissful agony, throbbing joy, delicious torment, the good hurt.

  Now I remember we played word games, creating oxymorons to define orgasm, which now is ironic as hell. Two opposite words come together to describe a dual feeling, entangled antonyms that exist in two realms simultaneously. Like the dead Laney in Garrett’s truck and the sleeping Laney at her desk.

  The laughing, groaning Laney tied to a chair, and the choked Laney slapped to the ground.

  The last time I checked Photos I was looking for the pic of the window screen under my bed. It would’ve been the last one on the bottom row. I had used a flash, so the photo should be bright. All I saw were the dark photos and didn’t care at the time what they were of or when I took them.

  Khannan texts. Dinner is ready.

  I go to my mirror, quickly brush my hair, refresh my lip gloss, smile, and take my picture. Then send it to Gibbs before I head for the kitchen.

  “Did everything fit?” asks Mom.

  “Yes. And I love what you picked out. Thanks.”

  She gives me a thin smile.

  Eddie stares at me like I’m a witch. Then glances away, probably afraid I’m going to read more of his mind.

  Khannan makes small talk about Alaska.

  Near the end of this awkward meal, Mom says she’ll come with Khannan tomorrow to pick me up from school. He’ll drive my car home while she’ll drive me to the airport.

  My phone vibrates, and I see a message from Gibbs.

  “From Gibbs?” asks Mom, a chill in her voice.

  I stand. “No. From Jag. Thanks for dinner, Khannan.”

  He nods. “You’re very welcome, Delaney.”

  I smile and walk toward my room.

  “Please make time to study this evening,” Mom scolds.

  “What else would I do?” I throw over my shoulder as I enter my room and close the door. I open Gibbs’ message and see three photos.

  One of her and Dad standing inside an ice sculpture of a heart lit by green and red lights, both smiling, arms around each other. Both wearing thick coats and wool caps. Dad looks the same—handsome, strong, friendly, ready to laugh at your joke or tell one of his own. I notice hair beneath his cap, so he’s let it grow out. I see only Gibbs’ face, oval shape with high red cheeks, wide mouth, thick eyebrows over large brown eyes. Alluring with that look in her eye that knows you’re staring at her, but also a hint of worry that you’ll stop.

  Another pic of Gibbs standing in front of a mirror, just like my picture to her. We’re not twins, but we could be sisters. She recognized the similarity because she put on the same color of lip gloss and fluffed her hair like mine. Hers is longer and straighter, but almost the same color.

  The last photo takes my breath away. She leans back against a giant oak, head turned toward the camera, hair in a twisted ponytail hanging on the far side of her neck, as she holds a red rose. She wears a low-cut knit top, stretched tight against her chest revealing a hint of cleavage, and a pleated miniskirt. Her expression is totally alluring and sexy.

  She’s added a note. School portrait when I was a sophomore. You’re my doppelganger, sweetie! You’re beautiful!

  I find my tightest and lowest cut top in my closet and put it on. I don’t own miniskirt, but find an old skirt I wore two years ago before my legs grew another two inches. I find colors of lipstick and eyeshadow to match what she’s wearing in the photo. Her eyes are heavily lined with long, separated lashes, with a background of smoky shadow drawn to a point outside her eye, curved slightly up. Her cheeks and forehead glimmer with soft pink blush. I turn on my lighted mirror and try my best to duplicate her look. After fifteen minutes, I look pretty good.

  I prop my phone on the dresser, set the timer, and try to match her pose and look in the mirror. After several tries, I pick the best. We’re amazingly similar. I open Pages, place our pics side by side, save it as a pdf then as a jpeg and send it to her. Couldn’t quite match your look, but it’s close. That’s the most makeup I’ve put on since the semi-formal last spring. I’m sending a copy to Dad.

  And I do with a note. Mom told me tonight that I looked like Gibbs, which, unbeknownst to me, has bothered her as I’ve grown up. I asked Gibbs to send me photos so I could see for myself. I’m sure you recognize the similarities. Did you know they bothered Mom?

  I roll up clothes and put them into my suitcase. I wasn’t planning on taking makeup, but I decide to take some now. I have no idea whether Dad has a printer, so I gather all my stories, binder clip them together and slip them into an outside zippered pocket. I try to hurry because I do need to review some history, though I’m sure most of the test will be multiple-choice—None of the above, B & D, A & E, All of the above, etc. Such crap. The entire point is trickery, not measuring what you know.

>   After a few more minutes, I zip up my bag and hope it’s under fifty pounds. I’ll carry my coat, fleece, cap and gloves and wear the boots, which will save a ton of space.

  My phone vibrates with a message from Jag. Here’s a photo of me so you won’t forget who I am. And so you’ll feel obligated to send me one of you. Your face is already burned into my brain, but I want to see you on my phone. And to show my parents. They’re pissed I didn’t introduce them to you. Please.

  The pic is a selfie he shot of himself in front of the hunting blind with the message—Where we first met! He looks beautiful, but I don’t want to look at that blind again. Too much darkness and mystery and pain there, which I don’t understand. I can Photoshop the background away, but I’d like another photo.

  To be honest, I thought about asking him for one a few minutes ago, but I didn’t want to be too forward. I send him the first one I sent Gibbs with the note—Made especially for you, which is less complicated than the truth, but my intent is sincere.

  I also send him the one of me and Gibbs. Do you think we look alike? Which would you prefer? Be honest! Also, send me another one of you.

  After a minute, he sends another photo of him playing the guitar on a stage, smiling. Talent show at school. They liked my song. Do you have a sister? Are you twins? Both of you are hot hot hot, but I met the best West sister!

  I text back. Good answer. Don’t have a sister, but I want one. The other girl is my dad’s girlfriend when she was in high school. She’s pregnant now with my sister. I send the photo of Dad and Gibbs at the ice park. This is my father and his girlfriend.

  My phone rings. Gibbs is calling me.

  “Hey, Gibbs, what’d you think of . . .”

  Gibbs wails. “You’re the daughter I aborted. It’s you!”

  “What?”

  She tries to speak, but every breath is hitched with sobs. “I . . . I was . . . pregnant at the . . .same time as Hannah. Sean . . . wouldn’t believe my baby was his. He said I . . . was screwing everyone. He knew Hannah’s was his . . . so he chose her. I got an . . . abortion.” She breaks down, gasping and coughing.

  My face burns and tears brim over my lashes.

  “You’re my daughter!” She drops the phone and screams.

  I feel my heart ripped out of my chest, and I collapse onto my knees.

  Dad yells, “Gibbs, what’s going on? Gibbs?” He picks up the phone. “Who is this?”

  I can barely speak. “Dad, it’s me, Laney.”

  “Why is Gibbs crying?”

  I try to pull myself up. “Did you get the picture I sent you?”

  “What?”

  “The picture of me and Gibbs. Check your phone.”

  After a few seconds, he says, “My God, Laney. How? Look, I’ll call you back in a little while.”

  He ends the call.

  16

  I hear a knock at my door. “Delaney?” asks Mom. “Are you all right?”

  Sitting on my bed, I feel numb and exhausted. I hear Gibbs screaming and crying in my mind and try to make sense of what she just told me.

  Mom knocks again. “Delaney? I’m coming in.” She opens the door and walks to the bed. Seeing my wet face and puffy eyes, she goes back to the door and closes it.

  “What happened?”

  Should I show her the photos? Should I ask her about Gibbs’ pregnancy years ago? Did Mom know about the abortion? I’m worried if she knows Gibbs freaked out and called me her daughter, Mom will cancel my ticket.

  Mom sits next to me. “Did Jag make you cry? Why did he text?”

  I could blame everything on Jag and make this conversation easier, but I can’t think what he could have done to make me so upset. “Jag sent me a photo and wanted one from me. I’m not upset about him.”

  “Then what?” She notices my clothes. “Why are you wearing these? Did you dress up before sending Jag a picture?”

  Good enough reason. And basically true. “Yes.”

  “I hear boys ask girls for nude photos all the time. I hope he’s not that kind.”

  “He’s not, Mom. He didn’t ask for anything except a photo. I did the makeup and the clothes on my own. That’s not the issue.” I turn my face to look at her. “Did you know Gibbs had an abortion sixteen years ago?”

  Her face reddens as her lips tighten against her teeth. “I knew she claimed she was pregnant, but I never heard anything about an abortion. Why did she tell you that?”

  “Claimed? You didn’t believe her?”

  Mom stands and picks up the clothes I tossed on the floor. “Sean didn’t believe her. He thought she lied about being pregnant to keep him with her instead of me.”

  “Because you were pregnant with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which was the plan all along.”

  She folds my leggings and my shirt quickly and drops them into the hamper inside my closet. “It’s impossible to plan everything, Delaney. Some things just happen.”

  “Which of you told Dad first about being pregnant?”

  She looks at me and swallows. “I’m not sure. What does it matter? So what upset you? What made you cry?”

  “She regrets having the abortion.” I stand and walk to my closet. “It still bothers her.” I pull out my leggings and shirt from the hamper.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were going to put those back on.”

  “I don’t think I want to walk around the house or go outside in what I have on.”

  “Outside?”

  “I left some things in my car.” I turn slightly, drop my skirt to the floor, and sit on my bed to pull on the leggings.

  Mom moves toward the suitcase. “Are you packed?”

  “Almost. Gibbs and I both have regrets that gnaw at us. How would her life be different now if she’d kept her baby?” I stand and pull up my leggings. I see Mom glance quickly.

  “It could’ve been better or much worse. We can never know such things.”

  “Maybe not, but that version of her life exists somewhere, doesn’t it? Perhaps she senses something about what that life is like. Or dreams about it. If it’s good and happy, her regret might burn more. If it’s tragic, maybe she’d feel more relief than regret.”

  I pull off my top and watch her eyes try to stay on my face. I fiddle with a button on the other shirt, delaying putting it on. I know what she’s thinking.

  “I still remind you of Gibbs,” I say. Her eyes widen. “Would you have preferred I look more like you?” I stand facing her. “Mom? Do you regret how I look?”

  Her eyes wander down. She pulls in a deep breath and tries to smile. “Of course not, Delaney. I’m very proud you’re so attractive. Do you want me to bring you anything? Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She widens her smile. “Well, you need to study. Maybe you should turn off your phone for a while.”

  I put on my shirt as she leaves the room. I’ve never been more sure of anything. Even though Mom grew up angry about her looks, she would rather me look like her, or worse, than like Gibbs.

  I notice a message from Jag, which must’ve come during my conversation with Gibbs.

  They look very happy. Is everything made of ice in Alaska? Even hearts?

  I text back. Guess I’ll find out. As much as I’d love to keep texting you, I need to study. Got three finals tomorrow. So, good night!

  Good night, Laney.

  I open my computer to the review material my history teacher has posted. For some odd reason, I’m just not into the rise of mercantilism at the moment. After several minutes, my head bobs, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I need coffee.

  As I walk into the kitchen, I hear the TV from the den. Sounds like a basketball game. Khannan is a big fan. I insert a Wild Mountain Blueberry pod into the Keurig and listen to the rhythmic push of water into my cup while I look around me. I’ve lived here since I was three, but I feel more and more like a visitor. So many photos have been removed from the walls. Mementos from trips—cups, rocks, hats
, pottery—have disappeared, all since Dad left. Nothing has been added since Khannan and Eddie moved in. Maybe they’ll bring something back from Chicago, but it won’t mean anything to me.

  What will I bring back from Alaska? Ice? Photos?

  And leave Dad and Gibbs and my sister behind?

  This house will seem emptier than ever.

  I grab my cup and walk back to my room. Sit. Sip. Stare at words. Sip some more. I do know this stuff, but how can anyone convince me this information is important to my life, present or future, aside from generating a grade, a GPA, a transcript, and more opportunities to learn and forget this crap in college?

  My phone buzzes. Dad is calling me back.

  “Hey, Dad. How is she?”

  “Asleep.”

  I panic. “Did she take anything? A pill?” She can’t take anything while she’s pregnant.

  “No. I calmed her down and rubbed her back. What are you worried about?”

  “I just don’t want her to relapse. No booze. No pills.”

  “I offered her some melatonin, but she wouldn’t take it.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s wrong with melatonin?”

  Maybe nothing for you, but is it safe for pregnant women? “Nothing, except it’s still a pill. She needs to stop associating pills with escape from something bad.”

  “Whoa, Baby Girl. Does she know you’re going to be so strict with her?”

  “I think we have an understanding. Dad, I want to go outside to talk to you, so hang on a minute.” I press mute and put the phone into my pocket as I walk toward the front door.

  Just as I open it, Mom calls out. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “No. I need to get something out of my car, and I want to walk a little. I’ll fall asleep otherwise.” I shut the door behind me and walk toward the sidewalk. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. What started this thing with the photos?”

  “Mom and I went shopping at Cabela’s. On the way there, she told me the real story of meeting you, then getting pregnant with me. When we got home, she told me I remind her of Gibbs, which I think she’s always held against me. So I asked Gibbs for a high school photo. When she saw it, she said I was her daughter, the one she aborted.”