by L. G. McCary
“And two ballet pieces. And a tap piece. She didn’t want to do that one, but they made her. She’s all about ballet and lyrical now.”
“I can’t wait! Will she be doing pointe soon?”
“They’ll decide after the recital. I know they wanted to check her ankle stability first.”
“Rylie-Girl has a gift,” Tori says with pride.
“Dance is all she wants to do,” I murmur.
Tori pats my shoulder and smiles. “Feel like you can walk? We need to get you something to eat.”
I know I should eat. I know I should do a hundred things that will help me feel better. How am I supposed to function like this?
“Let me guide you, hon. We’ll be okay.”
Thirty-Three
She is multiplying. This morning as I prepped for Rylie’s twelfth birthday party, She cried on the couch while I hung the ’90s-themed decorations. She appeared again in the living room on the couch when the guests began to arrive, mascara-smeared eyes staring into space. I ignored Her until I realized that there was another Charlotte, standing at the kitchen sink, washing invisible dishes. The one at the sink wasn’t wearing the blue blouse.
As soon as we sang and blew out birthday candles, I told my parents and David that I was getting a migraine.
Now I’m hiding in our bedroom with my head underneath my pillow because I know if I lift my head, She’ll be there. I curl my knees to my chest and block out every sound and bit of light. If I can’t see Her, She isn’t there. I’m so thankful no one from church came. It’s just Rylie’s classmates from dance and a few from school.
How can there be two Other Mes? My heart almost hurts from pounding so hard. I try to count and breathe.
One...
How can there be more than one?
Two...
Wild explanations from all the sci-fi movies I’ve ever seen are jumping through my mind. Multiple universes? An alternate reality? What is this monster who looks like another version of me?
Three...
Why, God, why? Why me? Why do I see Her?
Four...
I’m losing my mind.
Five...
She is taking me somewhere, kicking and screaming. Where is She taking me? She’s changing me, turning me into Her.
Six...
If there’s more than one, is that a sign that I’m about to snap? Does this mean I’m going to end up drugged, halfway to a coma after a psychotic break? What will David do? What will happen to Rylie?
Seven...
Why God? Why are you letting this happen? What did I do?
Eight...
Who is she?
Nine...
Who is she?
Ten...
“WHO ARE YOU?” I scream into the pillow.
I keep screaming it over and over into the cotton fabric until my throat is raw. I’m terrified to uncover my head. If there were two of them, how many will there be now? I would rather smother myself under this pillow than lift my face and find Her looking at me again.
Thirty-Four
I’ve been fussing with this blue ribbon for hours. The other costumes for Rylie’s recital were ready to wear, but her teacher left the duet costumes up to Sophia’s mom and me. Mostly me, since Sophia’s mom doesn’t know how to sew. I can hear the duet music playing in Rylie’s room. She’s practicing again.
Sewing calms me. I never see Her when I sew. I rarely see Her when I paint too. Both activities seem to scare Her away. Occasionally I see Her in glances, but She doesn’t seem to want to stay.
“Mom?”
“Sewing.”
Rylie walks in, out of breath.
“Can you watch for a minute?”
“Which part?”
“Just watch.”
She pushes the play button on the old school MP3 player we gave her a few years ago, which starts the duet music near the end and marks the routine for a few steps. Then she jumps, chassées, and glides around the room like a bird. The music flows like water. She slips slightly at the end on a jump, but other than that, it is perfect.
“Lovely,” I say as the music fades. “Watch that last jump.”
“I know. I keep slipping.” Rylie sinks onto the couch. “I land funny on the turn, and then I slip on the jump.”
“Did Miss Colleen notice?”
“No. Sophia still can’t get that middle section right, so she was busy with that,” Rylie says, stretching her neck.
“Ask her about it at rehearsal tonight.”
“Miss Colleen will have to cut one of the turns if Sophia can’t get it. And Sophia keeps talking about pointe. Ellie says there’s no way she’ll move up to pointe if she doesn’t fix her turns.”
“Don’t worry about Sophia. Do your best.”
“I guess,” she peers at the pile of blue and green on my lap. “Is it done yet?”
“Not quite, but you can try it on.”
“I’m all sweaty.” She smiles and fingers one of the ribbons.
“I hope you like it,” I say.
“Mom, I always like your stuff.” She stands up, shoving the player in her pocket. “I’m going to take a shower. Where are we eating?”
“Eating?”
Rylie’s jaw drops. “Your birthday dinner!”
“Oh no,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand. “Forgot what day it was.”
“Good grief, Mom. How do you forget your own birthday?”
I laugh and set the costume on the table. The clock has betrayed me.
“Because I’m old and going senile, and apparently, I can’t read a clock either! Go get cleaned up. Dad should be home in a few minutes.”
She chasses out of the room to take a shower, and I gather up my sewing supplies. The Other Charlotte is there again. She sits at the table, eating invisible food and crying. I ignored Her while Rylie danced, but now I glare at Her.
The garage door opens, and David comes in with his coat and laptop.
“Hello, Birthday Girl,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Where’s Rylie?”
“Shower. She’s been practicing her duet all afternoon.”
“Come back to the bedroom with me. I want to tell you something.”
I follow him back through the house, and he quietly shuts our bedroom door behind us.
“My boss told me about a position in Colorado and said I should apply,” he says, watching me carefully. “They would fly me up there if I get an interview.”
“Colorado?” My gut clenches, and I try to ignore the shiver starting in the base of my spine. “But we’d have to move.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t have to travel as much,” he says, pulling off his green polo shirt. “I really want to stop the remote work trips. I’m sick of missing Rylie’s stuff. And this would mean I wouldn’t lose my seniority.”
“We don’t know anyone in Colorado.” The Other Me appears behind him, yelling at someone unseen. I guess my ghost hates this idea.
“We’d be closer to your parents,” David says.
“And farther away from your mom.”
“She’ll visit,” he says with a shrug.
“What about dance?”
“There’re dance studios out there. Denver’s huge.”
I can’t bring myself to say anything. I don’t want to make any big decisions right now. I just want to keep my head down and survive.
“Do you think I should apply?” he asks, tugging his work shoes off.
It’s too much to take in. A different city. A different church. Different everything. My skin pricks with cold as She runs past me, vanishing before She reaches the door. She looks angry. David gently squeezes my hand, and I make myself look at his face.
“Do you think I should apply?” he asks.
“You’d better warn Rylie,” I say. “She’s supposed to take her pointe prep exam after the recital. She’ll be upset about leaving after all that work.”
“I’ll talk to her if I get an interview.”
There is a
knock at our bedroom door.
“Speaking of Rylie,” I say, nodding toward the door. “Come in!”
“I’m ready!” Rylie bounds into the room, wet hair slicked back into a thick bun. “Are you going to wear that?” she says pointing to my faded T-shirt.
“No, I’m going to change.”
“Hello, daughter!” David grabs her around the shoulders and hugs her tight. She wriggles but doesn’t push him away.
“I need to get the presents,” she says, as if suddenly remembering. “They’re in my room.”
“I said not to buy me anything,” I whine as she leaves to get them.
“And I said too bad,” David whines back.
I dress in a daze. I can hear them laughing in the living room, but I can’t make myself leave our bedroom. The Other Charlotte is flickering in and out of the room. She’s always upset, but this time She is angry. I feel like I might be sick and fill a cup with water in the bathroom.
What does She want? I can’t ignore Her all the time. Some days Her presence is like white noise, drifting through the house like a blue shadow I barely see. But right now, She is as solid as me, and I’m terrified to somehow touch Her.
“Charlie, are we going?” David shouts from the living room.
“Coming!” How can I pretend to be happy? I’m so exhausted from this fake joy I have to wear whenever anyone can see me. I want to crawl in bed and sleep, but I edge past the angry ghost in the bedroom doorway and hurry to the car.
David and Rylie laugh and joke all the way to the restaurant. The little Italian bistro used to be one of our go-to date night destinations, but we haven’t been in years now.
“Happy birthday, Mom!” Rylie says as the waitress settles us in the booth.
“If it’s your birthday, you’ll have to save room for dessert. Our tiramisu is wonderful.” Our waitress points to the photo on the menu.
“I’ll remember that, thank you,” I murmur. Rylie begs for soda, but I make her get water.
I order lasagna. Comfort food. Rylie decides on fettuccine Alfredo. David gets a steak with a pasta side. I ask the waitress to leave the dessert menu for later. David pulls the bag out from under the table.
“That’s mine! Open it first!” Rylie says.
I recognize the bag from the boutique Tori and I visited, and my heart pounds. Rylie is antsy as I pull out the tissue paper. I reach inside and pull out something in a beautiful blue silk fabric. The color takes my breath away.
It’s the blouse. No matter how hard I try, I can’t will away the tears in my eyes. Rylie’s eyes are on me as I hold the blouse out. It’s a beautiful top. It’s a beautiful shade of blue. Rylie must have thought a long time about what to get me and carefully selected this shirt, but all I can think about is throwing it in the fireplace when we get home. She has no idea what this blouse means.
“I picked it out myself, Mom! It’s just like your painting,” Rylie says, her voice unsure. My girl knows something is wrong. She can see I’m not smiling, and I see the hurt crease across her forehead. With acting skills I’ve so carefully developed after so many years, I smile my happiest smile. I will not break her heart. I may be losing myself, but I will not let the Other Me hurt my daughter, no matter how much She hurts me.
“This is perfect for me, sweetie. Perfect.” I pull her tight against me in the booth and kiss her forehead to hide my face. “Thank you so much.”
“Are you sure you like it?” She sounds worried.
“I love it.” The words taste like soap. “I absolutely love it. How did you know this was the right thing? Look, you made me cry.”
“See, I told you she would like it, Dad!” I’ve convinced her. Rylie grins and puts her folded hands under her chin like a Cheshire cat. “Open Daddy’s now!”
I look up at David, and the slightest frown curls the corners of his mouth. I haven’t fooled him. I may have convinced Rylie, but he knows I hate the shirt. He knows I’m not happy.
“Happy birthday,” he says, holding out a little box. It’s obviously jewelry, and I know exactly what it is before I touch it.
“Sapphire earrings,” I say. “To match the shirt. Round ones.” The ones that match. The pair the Other Charlotte wears when She’s not screaming.
“You peeked!” David says and puts the box behind him playfully. He is acting now, too.
“I didn’t peek! I promise. I know you too well.”
I do know him. And he knows me. I know that he loves to buy me fine jewelry because he hates the costume stuff I usually wear. I know he’s trying so hard to help me, even though I can’t be helped. I know he will never understand what is happening to me because I don’t understand it myself.
Rylie giggles as he finally gives me the box. The blue jewels sparkle in the light of the chandelier. I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.
I look him in the eye, willing him to see that I love him even though I can’t trust him. That I will do anything to stay with him and Rylie.
“Of course it’s a perfect match. We went shopping together!” he says with a fake smile.
The waitress is back with our food. As I put the blouse back in the bag, something inside me breaks. I’m too tired to fight this anymore. I’m giving up. It is inevitable. I’m becoming Her, whatever that means. Maybe I already am Her. Maybe She won a long time ago, and I’m just too stupid to figure it out until now.
Thirty-Five
I stare at my hair in our bathroom mirror. I think if I used scissors first, then the razor, I could shave off the monstrosity on my head.
I just needed a haircut. A simple normal trim so I would look nice in pictures for Rylie’s recital on Saturday. Then my hairstylist had an emergency and the salon owner handed me to a new stylist. From the moment the lady started cutting, I knew she was doing it wrong. She talked about her sister’s new baby and her friend’s wedding. She told me half a dozen bits of celebrity gossip. She was talking and not paying attention. I knew her scissors were too close to my ears. I should have stopped her. Why didn’t I stop her?
How could I let someone give me Her haircut?
I swore I would never get this style in a thousand years. I screamed, and I know the whole salon thinks I’m crazy, but I would rather be bald than look like this. I swore to myself I would never get Her haircut.
The Other Charlotte watches me from next to the shower. I can tell She hates this haircut too. I glare back at Her, and for a moment, it’s a standoff. I give up and look back at my real face in the mirror. The single difference is in what we’re wearing, and it makes me shudder.
What am I going to do? Should I cut in bangs? I’ve never looked good with bangs, but anything is better than this.
When I look back, the Other Me has faded away again. Good. I hate Her so much. I hate every single hair on my head.
The garage door slams.
David is back with Rylie. I haven’t answered his texts, so I know he’s wondering where I’ve been. I hear Rylie calling me, but I don’t want to answer.
“Charlie?” David steps into our bedroom, but I can’t tear myself away from my reflection. My skin feels like I’m covered with invisible ants.
Rylie dances into the room and bounces up and down behind me. “Mom, you look amazing! I love it! Dad, look!”
“That’s a good look on you,” David says.
“I hate it.”
“What? Why?” Rylie is shocked. Her eyes go wide with disbelief. “It’s so cute on you!”
If only she knew how those words cut me to ribbons. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I don’t like it,” I say.
“Why not, honey?” David asks.
“I hate this kind of style.” I don't ever want to look like the Other Me, the horrible ghost that haunts me every day and wants to destroy my life. But I can’t say that. “It was a big mistake.”
The story tumbles out of me about how the new girl didn’t listen and cut it too short, and now I’m crying again because I would rather be
bald than have this haircut. David tries not to laugh at me, but Rylie is horrified.
“But it’s so cool!” she says, fluffing the sides with a brush.
“Someone I don’t like has this same haircut.” It’s the closest I can get to the truth. “I’m going to have Kaci fix it when she feels better.”
“But it’s perfect! Please don’t change it, Mom!” Rylie says.
I bite back the tears and try to smile. And there She is. She’s watching my every move in the mirror, shimmering in and out as if She were made of smoke, but Her cold, dead eyes are impossible to miss.
“Charlie? Honey, what is wrong?” David says. I realize Rylie has left the bathroom and is rummaging on my dresser for something.
“I can’t look like Her,” I whisper. My words are hoarse with panic, and I try to swallow. He looks afraid of me now.
“Like who?”
I can’t pull my eyes away from Her, but She fades like mist in the wind. Somehow I think it is inevitable. She’s remaking me. She will force me to become Her no matter what.
“Here, Mom. Let me do it,” Rylie says, holding out a square scarf with cornflowers and daisies. She folds it into a headband and wraps the silky fabric around my head. “That’s how Aunt Tori used to do hers,” she says with a smile. I nod.
“I need to take a nap,” I hear myself say.
I’m not here. I’m underwater.
“I’ll order pizza for dinner,” David’s voice echoes.
But when I look up to respond, he’s not there, and somehow I’m sitting on my bed without knowing how I got there. I lean down until my head touches the pillow. I’m too exhausted to think. I’m too exhausted to breathe.
Somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, a little voice is screaming, “Wake up, Charlotte! You have to figure this out!”
But I can’t listen anymore.
And then the alarm clock reads three in the morning. I slowly become aware of David’s even breathing behind me. I haven’t moved a muscle since I fell asleep earlier, and my limbs are taut and sore. I struggle against the heaviness and turn over. David has covered me with a blanket.
