Only, you guessed it—not Margrét.
Leah Montgomery caught the puffin with a pinched, puzzled expression. She shook her golden head and said, “I don’t think so.”
“Sorry,” I murmured. “My mistake.”
“Obviously.”
“I thought you were someone else.”
“Oh?” She arched her blonde brows. “Who?”
“Not actually someone else, that’s not even possible. What I mean is …” Under Leah’s glacial stare my brain froze. What had I meant to say? Something clever and witty, like my book Celebrities Are People, Too advised. But my mind blanked.
Afterwards, I would torture myself by replaying this scene in my memory. Leah’s hair flowed symmetrically like a waterfall, spilling golden waves over her slim shoulders. She wore a chic red-belted dress, a cropped jacket, and open-toed, gold-heeled sandals. Her makeup glowed with glossy peach lipstick and a luminous glitter trail across her dusky eyelids. Everything about her seemed so perfect … making me feel less than adequate. That’s my only excuse for fumbling my words, rambling on like an idiot, saying something lame about puffins and baskets.
“Whatever.” Leah held the puffin’s black tail delicately, with two French-tipped fingers. “I believe this is yours.”
Before I could even say “thanks,” she’d tossed the toy back at me and turned to join her groupies, who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She whispered to them, pointing in my direction, and they all convulsed into giggles.
Humiliated, I shoved the fuzzy puffin in my backpack and took off running. After only one or two wrong turns, I reached my next class just as the bell rang. And the puffin remained tucked away in my locker for a month.
Now I was living the ultimate Leah Moment. There could only be one Leah Montgomery and I was definitely not her. I had to tell someone, but who would believe me? I didn’t know what to believe myself. Except I had a sick feeling this was all my fault. “Turn left,” Grammy had told me.
Instead, I’d turned right and landed in the wrong body.
I didn’t just look like Leah.
I was Leah!
When Leah found out that I’d shanghaied her body, she was going to be supremely mad. Hmmm … where exactly was Leah? If I was in her body, was she in mine? Was this like that movie where the mom and daughter switched bodies? Or were Leah and I both sharing this body? Like a two-for-one body offer.
Leah, I thought, raise our hand if you’re in here with me.
Nothing happened.
“Leah,” I whispered in that awful croaking voice. “Where are you?”
The heart echo quickened and each beep slammed me with new fear. I looked at myself—or well, Leah—and tried to understand how my body wasn’t my body. It just didn’t make sense. You couldn’t change bodies like switching a TV channel.
This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.
Yet it had happened. And until I figured out to make it un-happen, I was stuck looking like the most beautiful and popular girl in school.
Alyce is going to die when she sees me, I thought. Except I’m the one who died … or did I?
Desperately, I wished I could talk to Alyce. She believed in all things weird and could come up with an explanation for my body change. But if calls were restricted from this room, how could I reach her?
Maybe a nurse could help.
Struggling through waves of dizziness, I pressed the “call” button. Then I sagged back against my pillow, breathing heavily and dizzy.
The door opened and a light flashed on.
“Are you all right?” a soft voice asked. A nurse in a flowered uniform hurried to my bed. “It’s good to see you awake,” she said cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”
“Awful,” I groaned.
“No surprise there,” she said, patting my hand.
I longed to ask so many questions: why my throat burned, how long I’d been here, what was wrong with me, where my real family was, and if there was any special meaning for the horned snake tattoo on her wrist. But I was so damned weak.
“Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
I pointed at the phone.
“Sorry sweetie, but it’s not allowed.”
I mouthed, “Why?”
“For one thing, you can’t talk.”
“I-I can … whisper.”
“For another thing, it’s not allowed.”
I shook my head and pointed at the phone again.
“Would you like me to call your mother, Leah?”
“No!” I croaked. She meant the Lavender Woman.
“Then what do you want?”
To be myself and wake up from this nightmare. But that was impossible to explain, so I just leaned back wearily. Tears burned my eyes and I didn’t even have the strength to stop them.
“Don’t you fret, honey.” The nurse reached to smooth back some loose hair from my forehead. She wasn’t much older than me, yet she seemed motherly, making me miss my own mother even more.
“You’re just making things hard on yourself,” she added. “You have so much going for you. I just don’t get it. Someone like you shouldn’t be here.”
Someone like me? I didn’t understand the disappointed look she gave me, and anxiety knotted in my gut. “Wh … Why?”
She bit her lip, hesitating as if she wasn’t sure what she should tell me. In her hesitation, I sensed pity. Ohmygod! How bad were my injuries? I didn’t seem to be missing any body parts and wasn’t paralyzed, so what was wrong? What was too terrible for her to talk about?
“Don’t you remember what happened?” she asked, glancing behind as if afraid someone might overhear.
I shook my head, then gestured to the phone again, pleading with my eyes for her to help me.
“I can’t,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. They don’t trust you after what you did.”
“W-What?” I cried, fear mounting.
She looked over her shoulder again, then seemed to reach a decision. She bent down, so close that her ponytail brushed my neck. “You can’t make calls or talk to anyone outside your immediate family because you took all those pills,” she whispered. “You tried to commit suicide.”
Suicide! But I would never … I mean … never!
Sure, I’d had self-pitying moments when I threatened to do something drastic, but I never meant it. End my life? No way! I had so much to live for: best friends, family, college, career, and the unknown super-hot guy I would marry. We’d have only one child—boy or girl, I wasn’t picky. Being an “Only” had lots of perks, which I’d enjoyed until the triplets came along, and I wanted that for my child. I had all these huge plans for my career, too, complete with sketches I’d drawn of the fabulous Malibu beach home I’d live in with an entourage of “my people,” which would include a personal assistant, hair stylist, chef, and nanny. It was exciting to imagine myself as a top-flight agent, giving advice, counseling clients, and watching a spark of talent skyrocket into stardom. Also I’d be invited to A-list parties, where dessert tables offered oh-so-delicious chocolates.
Yeah, life was going to sweet.
So suicide? I don’t think so.
Of course, while all these thoughts raced through my head, I watched sorrow play across the nurse’s face as if her heart was breaking for me. And I remembered that this wasn’t about me. I wasn’t the one who’d attempted suicide.
That was Leah.
And she’d nearly succeeded.
Um … not good. Definitely not good.
Not being myself anymore—at least on the outside—was terrifying. Like when I’d been trapped in my sleeping bag at fourth grade science camp. My hair had snagged in the zipper. I screamed, squirmed and yanked, but I was totally stuck. It took two counselors to unsnag me, and eventually the bald spot grew back. But I never forgot the suffocating panic of being trapped.
This was worse.
I couldn’t unzip my way out of this body. I wasn’t me, yet I wasn’t Leah, either. A non-person, that’s wh
at I was—except on the inside I felt like the same Amber Borden. Whatever equaled identity was beneath the skin: fears, hopes, feelings, and memories. I knew who I was—but how could I convince anyone else? Especially as a hospital prisoner with no phone privileges and zero strength to get out of bed? I had to figure out a way out of this mess … but I was just too tired.
So instead of coming up with a plan, I went back to sleep.
My dreams danced to soul music, soaring with no boundaries. Free from restrictions, I flew backwards into memories.
Zoom in, camera-like, to the rustic lake community of Sutton Pines, to a shady tree-lined street winding into the paved driveway of 43 Molly Brown Lane. Flowering bushes and a brown picket fence welcome visitors into a cozy, two-story, wood-sided house. Pan up to the round attic window, and close in on two thirteen-year-old girls huddled around a plain brown box. Oh, how well I knew that private attic hideout and those girls—and especially that box!
The box was the result of whispered secrets and hard-earned babysitting money. Alyce and I had conspired for weeks. When the package finally arrived, I snatched it up and immediately called her. She came over ASAP, bursting into my bedroom. We couldn’t wait to open our prize.
“Will it work?” Alyce asked as I ripped off the paper.
“It better for $49.95!” I told her.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this!”
“Why not? You thought it was a great idea.”
“But now I’m not so sure,” she said, gnawing on her black-polished pinky. “Maybe it’s too unnatural … shouldn’t we be satisfied with what nature gave us?”
I nailed her with a dead-on stare. “Are you satisfied?”
“No, of course not.” She frowned at her chest. “A’s are good when it comes to grades, but not bra size.”
“Exactly. B-minus isn’t that great either.”
“So open the box already!”
Holding my breath, having no idea what to expect, I pushed back cardboard flaps, tossed aside bubble-wrap, and pulled out our very own, guaranteed-to-add-two-cup-sizes-or-your-money-back, “Mammo-Glamm.”
Unfortunately it wasn’t very glamorous. Hand-size plastic pink paddles connected by a coiled spring. We read the directions over and over, then practiced extending our arms straight out, grasping the Mammo-Glamm between our palms and then pumping in and out. After six weeks we only gained sore muscles—without enhancing even one measly cup size! Our pathetic little boobies remained pathetic and little. And the Mammo-Glamm Company never did refund our money.
Dreams shifted as I drifted back to consciousness. Tossing from side to stomach then back to side, I couldn’t get comfortable. Something hard and round poked my chest—two somethings actually. I reached up to push away these annoyances, and found them attached.
“What the—!”
Memory crashed in like a ceiling of bricks. I longed to go back to my dream, to be flat-chested and happy Amber.
Before I could sink too deep into depression, I heard a snicker, and looked over at the foot of my hospital bed. I saw a skinny blue-eyed boy, about nine or ten. His curly, dark-blond hair was pulled back under a blue bandana, and he wore a leather jacket and baggy black jeans.
He was a stranger.
But then so was I.
“Why you touching your boobs?” His cynical, crude tone seemed at odds with his young face.
“I wasn’t,” I retorted. From the inside, Leah’s voice didn’t sound as sweet as I remembered.
The boy crossed the room to stare down at me. His scowl gave a strong hint that he didn’t like me very much. Who was he anyway?
“I know you don’t want me here, so just tell me why and I’ll get out,” he said bluntly.
I cringed under those hate-filled blue eyes. “Why what?”
“You know.”
“Yeah, like not.”
“Liar! You can’t fool me. I know all your tricks.”
I almost snapped back angrily, until advice from The Bait of Debate popped into my head: To succeed in a confrontational situation, project calmness and curiosity. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who are you?”
He snorted. “Acting dumb isn’t gonna work.”
My throat burned, so I just shook my head.
“Come off it, Leah.”
“I-I’m not … not her.”
“You’re so full of it, and you look like crap.” He reached out for a plastic pitcher of water and poured some into a glass, then handed it to me. “Here.”
My hand shook as I took the glass and lifted it to my lips. Cool water eased some of the pain but I still ached with confusion. I couldn’t figure this kid out. He seemed to hate me, yet he offered me water.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Since when do you thank me?” He took the glass back and set it down on the tray. “Usually it’s ‘get lost, vermin’ or ‘bug off, brat.’ You must really be sick.”
You have no idea, I thought wearily.
He plopped down on the corner of the hospital bed and pulled out a shiny pocketknife. It was larger than his hand, with a wicked etched dragon design. I recoiled, afraid he’d flip out a menacing blade and stick me, but he just idly rubbed his thumb over the etched dragon.
“Dad’s pissed off, and Mom’s freaking out more than usual,” he said, gazing down at the dragon.
“Dad? Mom?”
“Well … duh. They’re so messed up it’s pathetic.”
“Your parents?’
“Duh. Who else?”
“Do I know them?”
“Ha! The whole poor pitiful Leah act, like that’s going to work. Faking a lost memory won’t get you out of trouble.”
His chilly expression was similar to the cringe-worthy stare Leah had given me during the “puffin” incident. “You’re her … Leah’s … brother?” I guessed.
“And her memory returns,” he mocked. “Hallelujah! It’s a miracle!”
I took that as a “yes.” Obviously Leah and her brother weren’t close, but this hostility seemed extreme.
“I won’t ask where you got the pills,” he said accusingly. “I already know.”
“What pills?”
“The ones you swiped from Mom’s bathroom cabinet.”
“I did not!”
“Did, too. I just wanna know why.”
I shivered under my blankets. “Why what?”
“Why you took the damned pills?” He balled his fists, his knuckles showing blood-red tattooed symbols. “I just don’t get it. You got everything, so why try to check out?”
Good question, I thought, and wished I knew the answer. Why would Leah throw her perfect life away? Well she could have it back. Wealth, beauty, and popularity sounded cool in theory, but I’d rather return to my own imperfect body.
“I already know more than you think I do, so there’s no reason to lie.” He clutched the knife in his fist, glaring harder. “Why take the pills?”
“I didn’t.”
“Stop freakin’ lying.”
“I—I’m not.”
“Is this about Chad? ’Cause he cheated on you?”
“Chad?” I tried to place the familiar name.
“Your boyfriend,” he said sarcastically. “Okay, act dumb and don’t tell me anything. I’m used to being ignored. No one gives a crap about me. I should thank you, I guess, ’cause you’ve screwed up more than me now. Dad’s so pissed at you, he’s eased up on me. I should have been the one taking pills, the way Dad’s always on my case. You can do anything you want, and they give you everything. I get crap.”
“S-sorry.”
“Like you care,” he snarled. “Save it for Mom or Dad or your posse of dumb girls.” Then he jumped up and strode out of the room, nearly bumping into a tall, dark-blond man in a tailored suit with dark gray tie.
I looked up at him, questioning. “Dad?” I guessed.
But I was very wrong.
“Do I represent a father figure to you?” the man asked, pulling
up a yellow plastic chair. He flipped open a notepad and jotted something down. “Typically patients refer to me as Dr. Hodges. I’m intrigued you called me ‘Dad,’ as I bear no resemblance to your father.”
Oops. Calling a shrink “Dad” was a bad move.
But when he’d walked into my room, carrying a briefcase and looking like an important businessman, I’d assumed he was Leah’s father. I’d already met her mother and her brother, so “Dad” was the next logical visitor. Dr. Hodges didn’t even look like a shrink. No beard or dignified glasses; instead, he had acne scars and large ears that poked out from thinning brown hair. Kind of like a grown-up nerd.
“Let’s just talk about anything on your mind.” He bit the end of his pen and tilted his head expectantly, clearly waiting for me to say something fascinating.
“Um …” I blinked. “My memory is fuzzy.”
“That’s perfectly understandable.”
“Do I know you?”
“Do you think you should know me?”
“Yes … I mean, no … I don’t know.” My head started to ache and I leaned wearily against my pillows.
He leaned forward, his pen sticking up between his fingers. “You’re making remarkable physical progress.”
“I don’t feel—” I paused to swallow “—remarkable.”
“It takes time to recover, but I can assure you your prognosis is highly encouraging. You’re going to be just fine.”
I shook my head, despair washing over me. How could I ever be fine again?
“Don’t think of me as your doctor, consider me your friend.” Dr. Hodges leaned forward, his tone intimate like we were best friends. “How are you feeling?”
“My throat … hurts.”
“Then by all means, let me offer you some water.” He reached for the pitcher on my table and poured a cup.
I accepted the cup, soothed by the cool liquid. “Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome. I’m here to help you.”
“Really?” I bit my lip and blinked back tears. Since I’d woken up, almost everyone had treated me with accusations and hostility. I desperately needed someone who cared enough to listen.
Dead Girl Walking Page 5
