Body Jumping

by Brenda Lowder

  Even so, I don’t take any joy in crushing this fragile, impossible start between us. This love story beginning which is pure imagination on my part.

  “I can’t.” I tilt my head down and peer up at him through my eyelashes, a sad smile touching my lips. “I’m married.”

  His eyes don’t change, but I’m sure he’s disappointed. I tell myself that I can take no pride in his regret. It’s for Natasha, not me. I am completely available for him—minus the coma-thing. It’s only Natasha he can’t have.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Aiden straightens in his seat. “No, I’m sorry.” He unfolds one of the paper napkins. “I didn’t really…that is, I’m not really dating right now. Just wanted to invite you to the restaurant.”

  I feel myself blush. Even as Natasha, I’m not irresistible. “I’m so excited to try out your restaurant. What’s it called?”

  “Simple Sauce.” He fidgets with the sugar packet. “You should. Bring the whole family.”

  The sudden sound of Natasha’s phone ringing makes me jump. “Excuse me.” I shoot Aiden an apologetic shrug and grab Natasha’s purse from the floor. I answer the phone.

  There’s whimpering and crying on the other end and, before I can even say hello, a breathy, urgent voice in my ear says, “Nat! Nat! You’ve got to come. Now. I’ve really done it this time. Really done it. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” The voice is fading, and I try harder to hear it, even squinting my eyes, which of course, does nothing to help.

  “Who is this?”

  The wry laugh is louder in my ear, and when she speaks again, her voice is pinched with hurt. “That’s rich. Pretending you don’t know your own sister.”

  “My sister, yeah, of course. Hello.” I feel like an idiot.

  “‘Hello, hell-o,’” she parrots, as if losing her hold on reality. “Please come. I think I’m dying. All of us. Sometime dying. Me, maybe today.” There’s a gurgle, and I wonder if she’s already made good on her word.

  “Hello?” My voice rises, testing for a response, but I’m also panicking. I glance up and notice that Aiden has slipped away from our table. He’s heading toward the exit. He must feel my eyes on him because he pauses and turns to look at me when his hand is on the door. He gives a half-wave and disappears into the night before I can wave back. I can’t help the little punch in the gut I feel at seeing him leave. This was the closest we’d ever been to each other, and I’d let him go so I could keep Natasha on track with her life.

  What if I haven’t?

  “Nat? Nat?” A plaintive plea tugs me through the phone. “Please, Natty. I need you.”

  If I’m Nat, I must act like Nat. She isn’t in a position to act for herself right now. “Wait! What’s the address?” I grab a pen from Natasha’s purse and pull a napkin over to me.

  I’m slightly surprised when Natasha’s sister gives the address without asking why I need it. Maybe her sister’s address isn’t something the real Natasha knows, either.

  “Please, Nat. Help me.” Her voice is reedy and small. “No one else can.”

  Chapter Seven

  I order a car to take me to Natasha’s sister’s home. There is a hot ball of worry scorching my insides. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. Am I doing what Natasha would do? She’d want to help her sister, right?

  Details prick the edges of my memory. Like the fact that Natasha’s sister is not programmed into Natasha’s phone, so I don’t even know her name. The pleading of her sister’s voice on the phone. The fact that her sister is in trouble—real, tangible trouble from what I can sense—and there is only me, a complete stranger, available to help.

  I have a feeling I will not be enough.

  I arrive at her sister’s place—a white stuccoed apartment building that’s gray with peeling paint flakes and broken shutters. In places the wrought iron of the staircase handrails have broken off and jagged ends reach out to stab tetanus into unsuspecting arms and elbows. I ask my Uber driver to wait and say I’ll just be a minute. I hand him a twenty, and he agrees. I don’t want to be left without a way out of here.

  I make my way up the crumbling concrete staircase to the second floor without touching the rail. Apartment #260 is the fifth door on the left. I start to knock, but the door creaks open at the lightest touch. My already jittery nerves accelerate. In no movie ever has it been a good sign when the door swings open on its own.

  I reach into Natasha’s purse and rummage for anything the least bit weapon-adjacent. She has no candlestick, no lead pipe, no wrench. She doesn’t even carry pepper spray. I grab her keys and thread my fingers through them so one juts out between each of my knuckles like they taught us in self-defense class my first week of freshman year. It feels better than doing nothing.

  I push open the door, and it hits the inside wall and bounces back. I step past the threshold before it completes its return arc toward me. I scan the room, but there’s no one to see. I close the door and hesitate for a moment. Am I more afraid of what’s outside or inside? I make the call to trust Natasha’s sister and lock it behind me.

  “Hello?” I venture, even though there’s no one in the living room. An ancient television sits dusty on a particle board bookcase that’s chipped in places and leaking wood bits. A scarred pressboard coffee table sits on the brown-stained rug. How is elegant Natasha sisters with this person? It doesn’t seem possible. Laurel and I have our differences, sure, but we both like a clean house, and we take care of our things. This is the kind of place where I wouldn’t even want to sit down, let alone live.

  I cross to the small hallway and inch my way to the bedroom. “Hello?” I call again, gripping the security blanket of my keys tighter in my fist.

  “Hello?”

  A small sound responds through a bedroom door which, like the front door, is already slightly ajar. I distinguish a low moan before I see anything.

  Not that there’s much to see. There’s a dresser, some photography lights in the corner, an open laptop—webcam? I close the laptop, just in case—and a twin-size bed with a tiny, thin disturbance in the mound of visibly stained sheets and blankets.

  She moans again, and I rush to her side, my fears and caution abandoned in favor of my desire to help.

  I get closer and pull the covers down. Her hair is light blonde, like Natasha’s, and sticks wetly to her sweaty forehead. Her whimpering and moaning is louder now that I’m close to her. A foul odor of unwashed body and linens assaults my nostrils.

  I lean over her thin frame. Her cheekbones are Natasha’s, but they’re hollowed out and shadowed where Natasha’s are patrician and striking. Her bony hands that clutch the comforter are corpse-like, the nails bitten down to nubs and bleeding. Her arms are covered in needle scars.

  The whimpering and moaning stops. I move closer. Is she dead?

  Her eyes pop open. Big and blue like Natasha’s, but bloodshot and not as bright as they should be. I step back, startled at the woman’s intense gaze.

  “Nat! You came.” Her voice is a whisper. She closes her eyes on the last word.

  “I did. Of course I would,” I tell her, though I know no such thing. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance? Take you to the doctor? The hospital?”

  She turns over on her side so her body is facing me. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I just want to stay here.”

  “Okay,” I say, wondering what to do, how to help. Whatever is wrong with her is more than I can handle. Is it safe to let her sleep it off?

  “Do you have a roommate?” I ask. “Someone who can take care of you?”

  She manages to stir herself enough to give me a derisive snort. “No one. No one can stand it, even you.” She pushes the blanket down. “I messed up. I think I’m dying. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen.”

  A chill runs down the back of my neck. Why is she invoking death? I want to make her knock on wood, throw salt over her shoulder, grab a four-leaf clover—anything t
o take it back, to keep from tempting fate.

  “I’m sure that’s not true. I’m sure you’ve got lots of great things to live for.”

  Another derisive snort, weaker this time, and a wave toward the top of the bedside table, which I hadn’t paid attention to until now. An empty prescription bottle lies on its side, a few pills strewn on the surface next to it. Empty, dusty-looking Ziploc bags litter the space between the balled-up tissues and sticky red plastic cups. Used needles and a banged-up, bent spoon make my blood run cold.

  “What did you do?” I hear the panic thick in my voice. I hate that I sound so weak. My heart is thumping hard against my ribcage. I’m more afraid than I can explain.

  “Too much this time,” she whispers. “I took too much. You wouldn’t give me money, but I got some anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but immediately realize it doesn’t matter. I need to ignore all my questions and not bother making sense of any of this and just call the ambulance that she obviously needs. I pull out my cell phone, but she grabs my arm.

  “Damn,” I say because at her touch I hear the giant whoosh and feel the pull of my spirit ripping free of Natasha’s body. I just have time to see her sister’s eyes close and to wonder, Is she dead? Was I too slow to call the ambulance? Too neurotic making my careful way through the apartment before rushing to her side and calling for help?

  But it’s too late now, and I’m slammed with sticky force into Natasha’s sister’s body. Just like when I switched from the old man to Greg and Greg to Natasha, I’m disoriented by the one-eighty degree change in perspective. Instead of the washed-out, skeletal, hygiene-lacking wilted version of Natasha, I’m now looking at the vibrant, full-color beauty of the original herself.

  The real Natasha looks back at me through blinking eyes. She slowly steps back. “Evie?” All the mystery of the universe is weighted in the tiny question. But for me, it’s an answer.

  Evie. My new name is Evie.

  “Natasha?” I prop myself up on my elbows, and she sinks to the bed, ignoring the smell and the stains. She sits on my feet, and I scurry to get them clear.

  “Yes?” Her gaze is cloudy, confused.

  I decide to give her a minute. “Nothing.”

  I watch her eyes scan back and forth and her hands twist in her lap. I wonder if she’s doing some internal calculations and if, like Greg, she was present for all the experiences we’ve—I’ve—been having in her body.

  She takes a deep breath and seems to come to a decision. “Evie, I told you I wasn’t going to bail you out anymore.”

  “Okay.” I nod, like I understand the history of our relationship. The truth is probably not hard to guess.

  “No. It’s not okay.” Her voice is steel, and I feel a chill even though I’m buried beneath a pile of dirty blankets.

  She takes my hand which is flopped on the covers next to her and she squeezes it—hard. I don’t hear a whoosh or feel any rushing back into Natasha’s body. Apparently I’m Evie now, and I’m staying.

  “Ow.” I try to tug my hand away. “You’re hurting me.” Instead of releasing me, Natasha squeezes harder.

  “Good! Maybe you’ll think twice about calling me the next time you stage one of your druggie overdose pleas for attention.”

  “This wasn’t staged.” I don’t know Evie, but I know what I saw. For the brief moments I was with her, I saw a woman who’d hit bottom, a woman who hadn’t meant to fall there. This was no stunt for attention. It was a woman facing death head-on. I know. I’ve seen it before. But that’s not what Natasha sees when she looks at me.

  Her grip—and the hard gold band supporting the giant rock on her wedding ring—is crushing my hand. My heart beating fast, I relax my hand and then all at once jerk it in the direction of her fingertips. I manage to pull free. She conjures a smug smile with a look that says I only succeeded in freeing myself because she let me.

  She was a whole lot nicer when she was me. I mean, when I was her. She. Whatever.

  “I almost died, Natasha.”

  “It’s your own damn fault, Evangeline.” She pulls her legs up on the bed and kicks at my feet even though they’re under the blanket mountain. I pull them up closer to me, anyway, until I’m a ball huddled up against the headboard-less wall.

  “God, you’re so pathetic.” She gives up the kicking and breathes a burdened sigh.

  I take a deep breath and try to feel Evie inside me. Nothing. “I don’t know why you’re treating me like this.”

  She snorts, and then I see the resemblance to Evie. “Sure you do. Because you deserve it. Because you’re a strung-out whore who’ll do anything for her next hit. Because I told you a year ago that I’d never again save your sorry ass, and you called me up tonight anyway and made me come over here.” She looks to the window and shakes her head. “I don’t even know what made me come.”

  “I almost died.” I’m reluctant to let that go. I worry that Evie’s already dead. I saw her eyes close right before I became her. Maybe she’s dead like the old man is and once I leave her she’ll be an empty shell again.

  It doesn’t sound like Natasha cares, but I hope that somebody, somewhere, cares about Evie.

  “You look fine to me now.”

  I look down at my arms hooked around my knees and realize she’s right. I definitely have a healthier color than the dishwater gray Evie was five minutes ago. My skin looks rounder, glowier, more filled out. The needle scars have faded—I can barely see them. As I watch, they disappear. Even my nails are less ragged and bloody. Is this proof that I’m the one giving her life?

  Please, no.

  “If you didn’t care whether I lived or died, then why are you here?” Does she remember?

  She purses her lips and loops her arms around her knees, unconsciously mirroring my position. “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I was having coffee with a stranger, a man I’ve never met before.”

  Her interaction with Aiden was all my doing, while she was a trapped passenger in her own body. What does she think about the experience? What does she think, or even feel, about Aiden? “What was he like?” I try.

  A look of irritation crinkles her brow. “I don’t remember. It’s not important.” She shakes her head, annoyed. “He left when I got your call.” She makes another exasperated-sounding sigh. “I’m usually so good at avoiding your calls. I don’t know why I picked up tonight. I guess it’s your lucky day.”

  “Yes,” I say without inflection. “I’m so lucky I didn’t die today.” Poor Evie. Her life certainly didn’t seem ideal, but was it fair what Natasha was doing to her? Was Natasha really that selfish? Or was this tough love? Or was there really no redemption in the world for a drug-addicted whore? If Natasha can be believed.

  A loud banging on the front door startles us both.

  Natasha turns big eyes full of blame on me, and I shrug. I know far less than she does. The banging gets louder.

  “Open up, Evie,” a rough male voice shouts. “I know you’re in there.” He hits the door harder, with such force I’m afraid he’ll be able to keep it up for hours.

  “What the hell did you do?” Natasha hisses at me.

  “I really don’t know,” I tell her.

  “I don’t care. I’m out of here.” She starts to get off the bed, but I grab her arm. She gives me a dirty look but stops when the banging takes on renewed force.

  The door shrieks from the pummeling and the man shouts, “Give me my money or I’m gonna kill you and everyone you know.”

  “I don’t think you should go out there,” I whisper to her.

  Trembling, she nods at me.

  I ease out from under the covers and stand on the dirty carpet with Evie’s bare feet, wearing her torn T-shirt and ragged yoga pants. I notice with surprise that I feel good. I don’t feel weak and wasted and clinging to death’s door like Evie looked when I first saw her. My gut seizes. Maybe Evie really is just dead, and I’m alone here in her body with all of the outward appearances s
tarting to reflect me and not her. How did I get stronger? Hasn’t my new body been mostly dead today?

  Natasha shadows me as I tiptoe as soundlessly as possible to the front room. I want to get a look at this guy. The key to survival—in any body—is being prepared.

  When I get to the front window where the blinds are closed—yay, Evie!—I duck down, lift the lowest slat, and peer up at our ill-mannered visitor. He’s a big man with hairy arms and thick, hammering fists. He pounds the door again, and I find that what I’d visualized in the bedroom was accurate—the cheap door is bending toward the middle with the force of his blows.

  I shudder and drop the slat before he can catch me looking. Natasha grips my arm. Her expression is panicked, and I realize that in her fear for herself she has forgotten her anger at me.

  “Open up, you stupid bitch,” he bellows. Natasha is shaking next to me.

  I’d only be a stupid bitch if I did open the door, buddy.

  I wonder what the chances are of him giving up and going away. I decide to search for a back way out of the apartment. I doubt there is one, but maybe Natasha and I can manage to get out by way of the bedroom window or something if we work together. Maybe tie bed sheets together like cartoon prisoners.

  Before I can put my escape plan into action, the front door gives way with a splintering crack and Big Beef is in the apartment. Natasha, paralyzed, screams in his face while I try to yank her out of his path. It doesn’t matter, though, because he doesn’t want her. He barrels past, knocking her to the side, where she falls and hugs the dirty linoleum floor. He seizes me by the throat.

  He lifts me inches off the floor and slams me against a wall. I scrabble my fingers at his hands, scraping him with my raw, chewed-up nails, choking and desperate for air. The edges of my vision start to go dark. As I feel my body begin to relax into the darkness, I freak enough to remember another tidbit from my self-defense training. I make my fingers rigid and stab him in the left eye as hard as I can.

  He screams and drops his hold on my neck. I fall to the floor, but I know better than to wallow there. I jump up and run out the door. Natasha, who has not stopped screaming, is up and running behind me. We book it down the stairs, out in the open air. When we get to the bottom, I chance a glance back up and see that my attacker is stumbling outside Evie’s apartment, still clutching his eye. Natasha pushes past me, runs to the Uber car, which is miraculously still waiting, and hops inside. I get to the car just as she slams the door.