Dead Girl Walking

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “I’ll do everything in my power to help you through this,” he said kindly. “I know it won’t be easy, but trusting me is your first step to recovery. It’s natural to experience initial resistance, but you’ll quickly discover that I have your best interests at heart. I assure you that anything you say to me will be completely in the strictest of confidence.”

  “I’m afraid …” I hesitated. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Belief begins with your willingness to trust.” He gave my hand a reassuring pat. “Let me help you. Tell me everything about the real Leah Montgomery.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “Refusing to cooperate reinforces negative behavior and hinders recovery.”

  I sighed, too tired to pretend. “I’m not … not who you think.”

  He showed no surprise, although his expression softened sympathetically as he wrote quickly in his notebook.

  “I only look like Leah.”

  “How do you usually look?”

  “Like Amber.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Me. I’m Amber, not Leah.”

  “You have an alternative personality called Amber?”

  “No. I am Amber.”

  “A nickname?”

  “No. Just me.” My words trailed off in a whisper and I wasn’t sure he heard me as I added, “I’m in the wrong body.”

  “I see.” He straightened, his gaze sharpening with interest. Finally, I was saying something fascinating and had his full attention. But did he believe me?

  “Rest assured, I am completely on your side and will guide you through this traumatic time.” He leaned forward, writing in his notebook. “Are you experiencing feelings of detachment, as if you’re physically inhabiting an unfamiliar body?”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but it was close enough, so I nodded. My head throbbed and it hurt to talk. Everything was so complicated. I didn’t know how to say the right things. Dr. Hodges sounded sincere, like he truly understood and wanted to help. With his support, I could sort out this mess and return to my real family. He’d said he was my friend, and I really needed one right now.

  “This could be one for the case books,” he murmured with a bright light in his gaze. Not the heavenly kind of bright light; more like the kind of flashing lights that go off when a game-show contestant wins a jackpot.

  Instead of being reassured, I had a bad feeling that I’d just made another very wrong turn.

  No one else came to visit, except a different nurse who gave me pills that dissolved the boundaries of reality. I escaped into a sleep so deep that the rest of the day was a blur. If I had bad dreams, I didn’t remember them.

  Gradually, voices crept into my consciousness. I was aware of lights and movement and a strong scent of lavender. I resisted waking, not remembering exactly why this was a good idea, just feeling safer in sleep. But cool hands were lifting me …

  I fought the hands, instantly tense with fear.

  “Leah, honey,” a woman’s soft voice pleaded. “Don’t make this so hard.”

  My eyes jerked open. I stared into the stranger face of Leah’s mother.

  “Go away,” I told her.

  But she didn’t, and neither did the male nurse who stood beside her with a wheelchair. They wanted to take me somewhere unknown. No! I wouldn’t go with them. Leaving would take me further from my family. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to make them understand who I was. But I couldn’t find the words, and crumpled inside. Instead of speaking rationally, I lost it and burst into tears.

  “I-I want … my-my mom.”

  “I’m here, sweetheart.”

  Soft hands reached for me, but I pushed them away.

  “NO!” My shout slammed painfully against my throat. “You’re not my mother—I don’t even know you!”

  “Leah, don’t be like this.”

  “No! I’m not Leah. Can’t you see?”

  “I can see you’re sick, but I’ll help you get better.”

  “I want to … to go home,” I sobbed.

  “That’s where I’m going to take you, if you’ll just get into the wheelchair—”

  “No, no, NO! I want my real mom!”

  I wrenched away from her, intense pain hammering my head. I could endure the pain, but not being taken somewhere my parents couldn’t find me. This was all so wrong! I just wanted to climb into my own bed in my own bedroom and feel Mom’s comforting arms around me. I’d been holding onto hope that my family would rescue me, or that I’d wake up suddenly to find myself in my own body.

  If I left, I might never find my way back home.

  “Leah, be reasonable,” the woman begged. “You know very well I’m your mother. You must stop talking like this … it’s not safe. You’re only making things worse.”

  “It can’t get worse.”

  “Oh yes it can—horribly.” She pursed her lips and lowered her voice. “Be a good girl and get into the wheelchair. Please, Leah.”

  “Don’t call me that! This is all a big mess and I can prove who I really am if you just get me a phone. I’m not your daughter.”

  The nurse narrowed his gaze at me, moving around a small table to stand beside the mother. He never took his eyes off me as he whispered to her, “Mrs. Montgomery, would you like me to call Dr. Hodges?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she told him, lifting her shoulders and chin and speaking with refined authority. “I can handle my own daughter. We’ll just need a private moment together, if you don’t mind.”

  “Is that wise?” The nurse shot me a suspicious glance, as if I might grow fangs.

  Mrs. Montgomery waved her hand, diamonds sparkling off the overhead lights, and insisted that the nurse leave. Once the door was shut and we were alone, she bent over me with an anxious expression. “Leah, you have to cooperate.”

  I pursed my lips stubbornly.

  “I realize you’re punishing me, and I’ll admit that I may deserve it, but this is not about me. I’m fighting for your life and I can’t do it alone. You have to help, too.”

  “Give me a phone.”

  “You think your friends can help you more than I can? Well, you’re totally wrong. I’m the only one between you and a long, unpleasant stay in a mental hospital.”

  “Mental—” I gulped. “—hospital?”

  “That’s what your doctor recommends. He thinks you’re deeply disturbed and need months of psychotherapy.” Her fingers trembled as she grasped my hand. “Is that what you want?”

  I shook my head, fear rising like waves threatening to drown me.

  “Then behave sensibly. It took all my resources to get the authorization to have you released into my care, but if you don’t cooperate, they’ll send you away for a long time and I won’t be able to stop them. Dr. Hodges has this ridiculous notion that you have multiple personalities and he wants to study you in a confined environment. Your father was ready to go along with this plan, but I insisted that all you need is your mother.”

  “I’m … I’m not crazy,” I whimpered.

  “Of course you’re not. But whatever you said to Dr. Hodges convinced him that you have disturbing mental issues and could be a danger to yourself and others.”

  I bit my lip, tasting salty tears. My nightmare was careening out of control, spiraling down a black hole. Mom, Dad … where are you? Please come get me and make everything better.

  But it was the other mom who brushed away stray hairs from my face and squeezed my hand. “Don’t be scared, Leah.”

  “I’m not Le—”

  She didn’t let me finish. “You don’t have to be brave for me. I know you so well, even if you don’t think I do. I realize I’ve been emotionally unavailable, but I’m changing. You’d be proud of how I stood up to your father, just like you’ve always wanted.” She paused, looking down at me as if she expected me to congratulate her.

  I closed my eyes, wishing this unreal world away.

  “You’re my miracle.” She spoke gent
ly, still stroking my hair. “You came back from that coma even after the doctors said you were gone forever. I will not let them take you from me. But you have to do two things right now.”

  I arched my brows, silently asking, What?

  “First, I want you to climb into this wheelchair so I can get you out of this place. Second, it’s imperative for you to behave normally. No more wild talk about not knowing your own family or they’ll lock you away. Can you do that?”

  I stared at her through eyes that weren’t my own, shuddering at the threat of a locked room in a mental hospital. I’d seen movies about mental wards with electric shocks and straitjackets, where even the sanest person turned into a drooling zombie. If I told the truth, I was crazy. But if I lied and pretended to be someone I wasn’t, I was sane.

  Swallowing hard, I met Leah’s mother’s gaze.

  Then I nodded.

  I realized later, when I woke up in a beautiful and unfamiliar room, that despite my agreement to cooperate, the “vitamins” Mrs. Montgomery instructed the nurse to give me before leaving the hospital were in fact sleeping pills. I vaguely remembered half-crawling into the wheelchair—embarrassed because the nightgown was open in the back and I was mooning the male nurse—then I was out.

  The silky, butter-yellow sheets were a definite improvement over the starchy white hospital sheets. And the four-poster bed with its frilly lace canopy was right out of the “Cool Stuff I Can’t Afford” magazines I flipped through when no one else was around. Oooh, so very luxurious. Unfortunately I couldn’t enjoy myself. I just wanted out.

  For a desperate moment, I prayed that this was all an outrageous prank. I was the unknowing victim on an extreme reality show like Punk’d. Any moment, Alyce and Dustin would pop out and shout, “Gotcha!”

  Only when I glanced down at myself, and saw wavy blonde hair over an elegant, ivory satin nightgown, reality slapped me hard. No matter how many times I wanted to believe this wasn’t happening, it was.

  Emotionally I was a wreck, but physically I felt better. Sleep had cleared the cobwebs from my brain and I could move my arms with only minor pain. I tested my legs, wiggling one and then the other. Not bad, just a little stiff. I drew back the gauzy bed curtains, pushed away a satin comforter, and slowly lowered my legs to the plush carpet.

  This exertion was more tiring than I’d expected. I paused to catch my breath. Then I lifted my head and looked—really looked—around the spacious room. Despite the utter mess of my life, I couldn’t help but be awed.

  Way gorgeous room! Ornate white-gold vanity dresser, entertainment center with everything electronic imaginable, oil paintings by famous artists I’m sure Alyce would know, an L-shaped dark gold couch, and lace-draped picture windows. I had a wild urge to fling open the closet, check out the drawers, and try on all Leah’s clothes. You can bet she’d have an amazing wardrobe: designer everythings from oh-so-fab stores where under normal circumstances I couldn’t even afford to window shop. But these were far from normal circumstances. I was still reeling from the weirdness of being Leah.

  A full-length mirror seemed to beckon from across the room.

  Like a sleepwalker, I moved toward the mirror.

  And I studied Leah.

  She looked unusually pale, and younger than I remembered from school. Even without makeup she was stunning: slim, with wavy white-blonde hair and exotic long-lashed blue eyes. Her creamy skin was flawless, free of the pimples that plagued me whenever I was on my period. Her slender arms tapered down to elegant French-tipped nails, and underneath the silky nightgown, tiny, cherry-red polished toenails poked out.

  Leah’s body was firm like she worked out, but soft like she never really worked. No scrubbing bathrooms or scouring greasy pans for these baby-soft hands. Leah probably had a housekeeper to clean her messes, a cook to fix her meals, and a personal fitness guru to firm her perky assets.

  Thinking of assets … okay, I’ll admit it, I was curious.

  Before I could decide if there was something voyeuristic about what I was going to do, I slipped off the fancy nightgown and stood naked before the mirror.

  Not bad, Leah, I thought.

  The breasts were amazingly perfect, defying gravity and deserving of applause. But were they real or surgically enhanced?

  Upon closer inspection, I found faint shadows of twin scars. And while they looked natural, when I touched them they felt hard and unyielding, like if I did jumping jacks, they wouldn’t bounce with me.

  Leah looked amazing with or without clothes; tight butt, zero cellulite on firm thighs, and long, athletic legs. A tiny diamond glittered from her pierced belly button, and further down I saw proof that Leah was a natural blonde. The small puff of blonde hair curled in a unique shape. I knew some girls shaved down there, but shaving it into a heart? Now that was just … weird.

  Whoa, Leah, what other secrets have you been hiding?

  As I stood naked, staring into the mirror, the enormous reality of my changed life crashed into me. I was looking at myself … except I wasn’t myself … not anymore.

  Maybe never again.

  Ohmygod! Leah freaking Montgomery! That was her, now me, in the reflection: breathing, feeling, living in this body.

  And all because I had a crummy sense of direction.

  Don’t panic, I told myself just as I was doing that very thing. Hyperventilating would solve nothing. I had to solve this problem—my entire future depended on it. In math, every problem has an answer; X always equals something. And my self-help books stated that there was a solution to every problem. But I didn’t know of any books that offered advice for this situation.

  Thinking logically … I’d gotten into this body, so there had to be a way out. But even if I found it, how could I make sure Leah and I returned to our own bodies? What if I ended up in a worse body—like someone in prison or really old with wrinkles? Leah and I needed to swap back with each other. Only I didn’t know where she was, or even if she was alive. What if she was gone forever?

  The pale ghost in the mirror reflected terror.

  I sucked in deep breaths and released them slowly, struggling not to lose whatever remained of me. I wasn’t sure I could hold it together any longer, and was raveling at the edges of despair—when I noticed something in the mirror that gave me new hope.

  On the dresser behind me.

  A phone.

  No uppity switchboard witch stopped me from making this call.

  As I waited for a ring, excited/scared/hopeful thoughts scattered through my head. How would my parents react when they heard my voice? What did they think happened to me? Did the triplets miss me? Who was feeding our cat while I was gone?

  It was almost noon. Dad would be at his job, but Mom should be home preparing triple lunches (unless she was running errands or meeting with her Moms & Multiples playgroup.)

  If Mom answered, she’d be so relieved to know I was okay that she’d start crying, and she wasn’t the crying type at all. My father was the emotional one, although he always hid it by saying he had allergies. If he answered, he’d want to rush right over and take me home. Mom knew how reckless Dad got behind the wheel when he was in a hurry, so she wouldn’t let him drive alone. But then who would watch the triplets? Probably Dilly McCurry, who lived next door and often babysat when I wasn’t around.

  All these things whirled through my head while I waited for the first ring.

  Pick up! I thought, amazed that calling home could be so terrifying. I mean, I was just calling Mom and Dad. So why was my heart racing? My family loved me unconditionally, and they’d support me no matter what.

  Another ring. My palms started to sweat.

  Had one of the triplets tossed the phone in the toilet again?

  Another ring. Maybe this phone wasn’t working right. Or I’d dialed wrong. Lately I had the worst luck with phones. I should hang up and try again—

  “Hello?” a woman answered abruptly, in a voice I didn’t recognize.

  “Um … I mus
t have dialed wrong,” I said, ready to hang up and try again.

  “Whom were you trying to reach?”

  “My par … uh … the Bordens. Sorry to bother—”

  “This is the Borden residence.”

  “Is it?” I sagged against the dresser with relief. “Can you put Mom on?”

  “Who? I don’t think I heard you right.” She sounded tired, as if I’d woken her from a nap.

  “My mother,” I said impatiently.

  “You have the incorrect number.”

  Ah ha! Now I knew that voice. The formal way she said “incorrect” rather than “wrong” triggered a pleasant memory of being little and playing wild animals with my cousin Zeke at a family wedding. Less pleasant was the memory of the six-hundred-dollar wedding cake we’d knocked off a table. My aunt never did forgive me, and neither did her oldest daughter—the bride.

  “Aunt Suzanne!” I cried, wondering what she was doing at my house, but not really caring because that wasn’t important. Connecting with someone from my family made me giddy with relief. “Could you get Mom or Dad for me? I really, really need them.”

  “Who is this?” she demanded sharply.

  “You know … Amber.”

  “Amber who?”

  “Borden, of course. Your niece. Come on, Aunt Suz, stop kidding around.”

  “I never kid around.” There was a pause, then my aunt spoke with brittle coolness. “I don’t know what sick game you’re indulging in, but if you ever have the audacity to call again, I’ll contact the police.”

  “But Aunt Suz … I mean … I’m sorry.” Instantly I realized my mistake. No wonder she didn’t recognize my voice. Not only did I look like someone else, but I sounded different, too. “Wait! Don’t hang up! You don’t understand. Let me explain!”

  “I have no intention of holding a conversation with someone with no consideration for a grieving family.”

  “I didn’t … I mean … grieving?”

  “Do you have any idea what the family is going through?”

  “No … I don’t. What’s … What’s going on?” I asked, gripping the phone tight and starting to tremble.

  “I’m not going to discuss personal issues with a stranger.”