Finding Tranquility

by Laura Heffernan

  Or maybe what I needed was to go to the hotel bar and find a man to spend a few hours with. With a wry smile, I shook my head. That was Teddy’s voice in my ear, not mine. One-night stands weren’t my style; not even anonymous one-night stands in the middle of nowhere with a man I was guaranteed to never see again. I’d tried to force myself to feel attraction to strangers, and it never seemed to work out. It was difficult to even understand when people talked about instant lust, because I’d never experienced it. And I had other things on my mind than sex.

  Taking my time, driving slow, and stopping whenever I wanted, I reached the resort around four o’clock.

  Red and light green turrets topped the exterior of the hotel, which resembled a Swiss chalet. A mountain dotted with trees soared into the clouds, reminding me how insignificant my problems were in the grand scheme of things. I wanted to stand on top of that mountain, breathe in clean, fresh air, and remind myself of all the things in my life I had to be grateful for. But first, the whirlpool tubs from the pictures on the website called my name.

  A valet took my car with a promise that it would be available any time I needed it. I had no intention of going anywhere outside of walking distance, and I told him so. Before entering, I stopped to enjoy the view.

  As I approached the front door, I tapped out a message to my mom on my phone, letting her know I arrived okay. Intent on the device, I didn’t notice when the front door opened, and I walked right into the woman exiting.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Excuse me,” the woman said.

  In my shock at recognizing the voice I never expected to hear again, I stopped dead in the doorway. The timbre was higher, more feminine, but still—I knew that voice. I knew that face, too. The cheeks were smoother, make-up changing some of the contours, but that thick, dark hair hadn’t changed—it was longer, sure, but still had the silky texture I’d envied as a teenager. The slightly crooked nose was the same, a bump from where his older brother broke it when he was sixteen. And the eyes. A person could change their entire appearance, but always kept their eyes. Those were Brett’s eyes.

  My heart stopped. How was this possible? What was going on? Why?

  In my shock, words escaped me without my meaning to speak. “Holy shit. Is that really you?”

  My suitcase continued to roll forward, the back hitting my knees. Stumbling, I stepped forward, putting one hand out to steady myself. The woman before me—impossibly, my dead husband—stepped back, shaking her head.

  For a split second, I thought the long drive went to my head. The thoughts in my head couldn’t possibly be true. I tried to laugh off my faux pas. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You have a very strong resemblance to my husband. I don’t know what came over me—”

  I broke off because she was still shaking her head, one hand over her mouth. And as her brown eyes filled with tears, I knew with one hundred percent certainty that I hadn’t made a mistake. How or why the late Brett Cooper came to be standing in front of me, in this Canadian hotel, wearing a dress, was a mystery, but all the same, there was no doubt.

  It was him.

  Clothes and makeup could hide a lot, but they couldn’t hide the bump on his nose I’d kissed a thousand times. I knew the look of mortification in his eyes, I knew the set of his shoulders, the curves of his lips, and the unique scent of him, beneath the lilac perfume. It startled me to realize she’d chosen a scent so similar to the one I used to wear. These days, I smelled more like hand sanitizer and coffee than flowers. Of course, Brett wouldn’t know that.

  Before I could say anything, she turned and sprinted back into the hotel. If that hadn’t happened, perhaps I could’ve written the whole thing off. Fatigue gives people delusions, right? A physical manifestation of my sadness? Or the stress of it being the anniversary of Brett’s death, combined with several hours on the road listening to a book about magic? But if I’d made a mistake, the woman I’d just walked into wouldn’t have run away from me.

  Dropping the handle of my bag, I sprinted after her. When we were kids, Brett won every time we raced, having the benefit of longer legs. I’d have expected the high heels to slow him down, but apparently not. As a doctor, used to jumping whenever the phone rings, I should’ve had the advantage, but the time it took to overcome my shock meant he got a head start.

  “Stop!” I called, as if it were a magic word. If my quarry heard me, I couldn’t tell.

  My mind whirled as we raced across the lobby and out a side door. A ghost? Witness protection? Some kind of horrible prank? World’s worst reality show? Long-lost twin, separated at birth?

  Before I could make any sense of anything, a young child stepped into the path several yards ahead of us. A little girl, perhaps three years old, tow-headed and blissfully unaware of the danger stampeding toward her.

  “Watch out,” I yelled, not sure if I was yelling at the toddler, her parents, or my husband. Hopefully someone within the sound of my voice spoke English because I couldn’t remember the warning in French.

  Brett leapt over the child, brilliantly avoiding a collision. When he landed, one ankle turned. He yelled and tried to keep walking, but his knee buckled, and he fell to the ground not far from the child. The girl’s parents jerked her from the road and down the sidewalk, threw an apology toward Brett, and dragged her through the open door of one of the shops lining the road. The little girl seemed unharmed, so I ignored them.

  Slowing, I continued heading for Brett, until he stood and began limping away. I hadn’t won this race yet. With a burst of speed, I moved ahead and planted myself in the path in front of him.

  “Stop.”

  He stared at the ground, and I grabbed her arm. “Brett. Stop.”

  Finally, he met my eyes. “You can’t call me that. Please, Jess. I’m not Brett anymore. No one here knows that name.”

  The words were a punch to my gut. I knew, but I didn’t really know until he admitted it. Even while running down the street, part of me never expected to hear this woman say my name. There was no way she could’ve known me. Unless she was Brett.

  My mind whirled. I couldn’t begin to understand how to process all of this. Not today, of all days. The day my husband died. Also, apparently, the day he came back. Why was he dressed like a woman?

  At the look on her face, the pleading in her voice, long buried memories rushed to the forefront of my mind, hitting me like a ton of bricks. My razor, duller than I thought it should be after only a couple of uses. Old lingerie unworn for months, pushed to the front of the drawer. Hour after hour of Lifetime Original Movies, watched without complaint. Brett’s fascination with looking at my body, even when he didn’t want to touch it. The fact that he always used private browser windows, swearing it was a good habit to get into for privacy. I’d wondered if he was having an online affair, but I’d never considered this, whatever this was.

  Before I could begin to think of what to say or do, he—she—took another step, and her ankle twisted again. I shoved aside the myriad emotions roiling within me and reached out without thinking. “Let me help you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “And I can help you. I’m a doctor.”

  “Really?” The pride in her voice upon hearing those words was unmistakable.

  “Yes, really. A lot’s happened in the past eighteen years. You’d know that if you’d been around.” I didn’t hide the note of bitterness that snuck into my voice. Part of me wanted to walk away, leave this person on the side of the road with a possibly broken foot. If this was Brett, he didn’t deserve my compassion.

  Except we don’t give compassion because it’s deserved, and if this was my Brett, I needed to know what happened to him. I’d loved him too much to walk away, even if he’d abandoned me.

  Tears filled her eyes. “Yeah. I’m sorry. What are you doing here?”

  My hands went to my hips. “You’re asking me that? What are you doing not dead?�
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  Her face turned bright red. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I have no right to ask you anything.”

  “No, you don’t. But I drove up from Boston to spend some time alone because today is the anniversary of my husband’s death.”

  At my words, she flinched. Pain flashed through her eyes, but I didn’t feel terribly inclined to make her feel better.

  “You still live in Boston? I would’ve thought you moved to Los Angeles, like you dreamed.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot of things changed for me that day. I imagine you have a few things to tell me, too.” I hesitated. “You said no one knows Brett. What do I call you?”

  She flinched at the sound of her own name. “My name is Christa McCall. Brett died years ago.”

  This was insanity. Less than half an hour ago, I was a grieving widow who’d waited much too long to move on. And now, the universe was punishing me somehow by sending some woman into my life who thought she was my dead husband.

  Except, that wasn’t what was happening at all. My head spun. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, where to even start. I needed to lie down. Or get out of there. Something.

  “Christa,” I repeated mechanically. “I always liked that name.”

  A chill hit me, and I shivered, rubbing my arms. The temperature must’ve dropped ten degrees since I’d left my car, unthinkingly leaving my coat draped across the passenger seat. Going to get it would give me an escape. But if I walked away, would I find her again? Did I even want to?

  What the hell was going on? Why was this happening to me?

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. This is…no.”

  “I know,” she whispered, looking at a group of people who’d exited the hotel and started walking toward us. “We need to talk. I’ll come to your room, and I’ll explain everything. Later.”

  Letting her out of my sight before getting an explanation seemed like the dumbest thing I could possibly do, but we couldn’t stand there forever. Maybe if I walked away, I’d wake up and find out this was all a bad dream. Or if she vanished, I could forget this ever happened and resume my life as Jess Cooper, tragic 9/11 widow.

  I hated that life.

  No. I loved my life now. Loved my job, my family. I hated being a statistic.

  My heart pounded. None of the thoughts swirling around inside me made any sense. Numbness crept through my veins; I watched a stranger moving and talking in my body. Clearly, I was in shock. I only knew how to treat other people for shock. In that moment, all I could think was what a funny word it was: Shock. SHOCK! Shock. Say a word enough, it starts to become meaningless. I needed to sit down before I fell.

  Christa cleared her throat, and I realized that I was just standing there, holding her in place, staring blankly down the street. I didn’t even remember what she’d said to me.

  “Huh?”

  “Can I come to your room to talk about this in about half an hour?”

  Now knowing what else to do, I nodded, finally releasing her arm. “I’m going to go check in. I don’t know my room number yet, but we can meet in the bar and talk there.”

  She shook her head. “I work at the hotel. I’ll look up the room number.”

  If she worked at the hotel, that at least meant she might not disappear again.

  “Fine. I need to unpack, have a drink, take a bath. Come by in an hour.”

  ∞ ♡ ∞

  Alone in my room, I paced. Thinking, seething, wondering. Why had Brett abandoned me? Why had he missed his flight? The thought that he’d somehow managed to live and escape after his plane hit the World Trade Center with no memory of his former life was ridiculous. I didn’t allow myself to consider that possibility for a second.

  Since he couldn’t have survived the crash, that meant Brett must’ve intentionally walked out of my life. He didn’t die. He left me. Dying isn’t a choice, but abandonment is. That knowledge tarnished every memory I had of him, of our relationship. Every kiss, every caress, every declaration of love had been a lie. A man who loved his wife didn’t leave her a couple of months after their wedding.

  Emotions flashed and raged before I managed to get a firm grip on any of them. Elation that my best friend and lover hadn’t died after all. Fury that he’d left me. Confusion at seeing him dressed as a woman. Sadness that I’d lost the past eighteen years with him. Rage that my son grew up without a father. Astonishment at everything. My surprise pushed most of the other emotions aside. I had no idea what to do after I was done crying and pacing and raging and hitting pillows.

  I needed to call Ethan, to let him know. No, I couldn’t. None of this made sense. What would I even say? Where to start?

  Only one person could help me sort through everything, and that person was both the only and last person I wanted to see. It took two bottles from the mini-bar to give me the courage to fix my destroyed makeup and hair so I’d look presentable when she showed up.

  By the time a knock sounded on the other door, a thousand questions swarmed around in my brain. But when the door opened and I saw her standing there, all other thoughts were crushed by the swell of rage that rushed through me.

  “Hey,” she said, stepping past me into the room.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who are you? Why are you here?” I slammed the door shut behind her and Brett—Christa—my husband? wife? stepped into the room.

  It was hard to think of the feminine person standing before me as the man I once slept beside every night. The form was unmistakably female. Not even knowing which pronouns to use only made the mix of emotions swirling within me more powerful. This was the man who promised to love, honor, and cherish me. The man I mourned for more than a decade. And he was alive and he was a she. That bastard.

  The rage was so strong. I wasn’t Jess anymore. Someone I didn’t even know had control of my body when I stepped toward Christa and slapped her across the face. Twice. Again.

  She grabbed my hands, and my sobs turned into screams. I struggled, but her grip held firm. When I realized that I couldn’t get loose, my knees buckled. Christa led me to the bed. I didn’t want this person to comfort me—all I wanted was to run out of the room, drive home, and forget any of this ever happened. But I was crying too hard to stand.

  Long arms wrapped around me, somehow both alien and familiar. This wasn’t my Brett, didn’t smell like Axe body wash and Suave shampoo. This Brett smelled like a bouquet. Like a woman. The voice that murmured meaningless platitudes in my ear wasn’t as rough, as husky as it used to be. It was womanly, a voice I’d never have expected to hear from my husband’s mouth. But the touch, the words, reminded me that I was sitting on the bed with my best friend. With the person I grew up with, expected to grow old with. The person I’d lost. Finding him again was a miracle.

  Even if he looked like a woman, and I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand any of this.

  When the tears wouldn’t stop, I stopped fighting them. Instead, I leaned into the warm body and let myself sob.

  A long time passed before I composed myself enough to carry on a conversation. Brett/Christa handed me a tissue, which I gratefully accepted.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I do,” she said. “You’ve had one hell of a shock. I’d say your reaction was better than I expected.”

  “You thought about this moment?” I sure hadn’t. All the times I’d allowed myself to dream of Brett being alive, this never occurred to me.

  “Of course I did. At first, I dreaded it. But then I started to wonder. Late at night, I’d let my mind wander, think about what if. I’ve missed you, Jess. I’ve wondered what you’re doing now, who you turned into, whether you found love…” She trailed off, looking at her fingernails.

  I swallowed. “I did find love. I married my best friend three weeks after I graduated college. Remember?”

  The words sounded bitter even to my own ears. I may have spent the better
part of two decades dealing with the death of my husband, but I’d only had a couple of hours to adjust to him being alive. Her being alive. This was all so confusing. My head hurt. “Maybe I should go.”

  When I stood, Christa grabbed my hand. “Please stay. I’d like to talk to you. I’m so sorry.”

  My head and my heart pulled me in different directions. My brain screamed that this was not a good situation, that I should run. My heart told me that Brett had clearly been through a lot, that he was once my best friend and lover, and that I should hear her out, just for a bit.

  I reached for another tissue and wiped my eyes. “I don’t even know what to call you. Brett/Christa. He/she. Him/her. Husband/wife. Dead/alive. Who are you?”

  “I’m Christa. I’ve been living and working as Christa for eighteen years, since I moved to Canada.” She cleared her throat. “I know this must be hard for you—”

  My laugh cut her off. “I… God. Yeah. I don’t even know what to say. Christa. I’m so confused right now. This is all so…What the hell is this? Are you in some kind of reality show? Witness protection?”

  “No, I’m just me. Christa. A woman living in Canada, trying to lead a good life.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?” Maybe that was what hurt most of all. Once, I’d have sworn on my life that we told each other everything. Clearly, I’d have been wrong.

  “Tell you what, exactly? That I’m a woman?”

  I nodded.

  She twirled a lock of hair around one finger as she searched for the right words. Brett used to do that, when his hair grew too long. Seeing it somehow made my heart ache both more and less. “I didn’t even know myself, not really. Besides, what would you have done?”

  “Freaked out, probably. Called your parents.” A realization hit me. “Oh, God. Your parents. Your family.”

  “I don’t have a family,” she said quietly. “I gave all that up years ago. Brett Cooper died on September 11, 2001. Christa doesn’t have a family.”