Body Jumping

by Brenda Lowder

“Nice office.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been doing interviews for weeks now. Seemed right to get a place ready so people can actually sit and talk.”

  “Sure. I like it.” I smile and rub a hand down my pant leg to stop my leg jiggling.

  He grabs a pen and pushes his light brown hair back from his forehead as he scans my resumé. He makes a few marks on it and then leans back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head.

  “So why should I hire you?”

  Um. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been great at interviews. I’m not that dynamic. Barclay should be here instead of me. He would wow Aiden in seconds. If he didn’t overwhelm him. Or hit on him.

  I clasp my hands together in my lap and try to project professionalism. “I’m prompt. I’m very hardworking. I’m not a complainer. I’m not happy until the work is done. I care about the job I do. I care about Simple Sauce’s success.”

  He sits up, his eyes wide. “That may be the best answer to that question I’ve ever heard.”

  A huge grin splits my face, and I feel my lips crack. Definitely need to get some lip balm. I wait for him to ask another question, but he doesn’t. “Does this mean I’ve got the job?”

  “If you want it. Though judging by your job history, you could be doing a lot more than waiting tables.” He picks up my resumé and looks at it again before tossing it in a tray on the left side of his desk.

  “I’m a writer,” I say. When his eyes find mine, I quickly look away. “I mean, I’m trying to be a writer. I write. I try to get published. It’s my thing.”

  Aiden nods. “Makes sense. I know a lot of struggling artists who wait tables while they’re going after their big break.”

  I wouldn’t call myself an artist, but I love that Aiden did. I feel hopeful and like a fraud at the same time. Like wow, I would love to see myself as an artist, and also, who am I kidding? No one’s going to ever read anything I write. Ever.

  I blush and open my mouth to demur when a thin, balding man dressed in a plaid button-down shirt tucked into his jeans looms in the open doorway. “Hey, Aiden, I wanted to get your answer on—” He breaks off when he notices me. His head snaps back, and he shoots me an odd look. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll come back.”

  He starts to turn but Aiden calls out, “Hey, Jim, hold up.” Jim turns around and steps into the room half a foot. “I want you to meet Evangeline, our newest employee.”

  I smile and wave at Jim, but he doesn’t wave back. “Evie, actually,” I say.

  “Evie,” Aiden echoes, with an eye-softening smile in my direction.

  “Nice to meet you, Evie,” Jim says in a toneless voice and leans on the doorframe.

  “Evie’s a writer, but she’s going to wait tables till she’s famous,” Aiden tells him.

  I laugh and blush some more. I’m acting more like Julianne the boring librarian than the shining star that Evie should be.

  “Uh, good for her. Hey, Aiden, I gotta go. Trev’s waiting on the plan for the bathroom mirrors. I’ll catch you in a few.” He thumps the doorframe twice in farewell then bolts. Busy times, I guess, getting everything ready for opening.

  “So, um, Evie, do you have any questions for me? We don’t have an employee dental plan yet, but you should make some great tips, especially on the weekends.”

  I summon the confidence that Barclay said I should inherently feel, being in this hot body, being Evie, and ask something Julianne wouldn’t ask in a hundred million years, but Evie might. “Just one.”

  Aiden raises his eyebrows.

  I angle my head and look up at him under my eyelashes. “What’s the company policy on workplace dating?”

  To my surprise, he throws his head back and laughs. When he can speak again, he says, “Caught a good look at Jim, did ya?” His eyes are sparkling at me.

  I feel my face get hot, and I want to cover it with my hands and flee the room, but I force myself to look at him and smile. “Am I too late? Is he married?”

  “Yes and yes, but I can’t blame you for trying. He’s a hottie, that one.” He smirks and I refuse to take myself too seriously like Julianne would. I laugh.

  “My loss,” I say and snap my fingers in regret.

  He rolls his chair closer to his desk and straightens a sheaf of papers. “Opening night isn’t for another two and a half weeks, but server training has already started. I want us to be a well-oiled machine from the minute the doors open. Can you start today? One o’clock?”

  “I sure can.” My heart does a little cartwheel at the thought of seeing Aiden again so soon. And for having a reason to be with him.

  “Great! See you then.” He rises and extends his hand.

  Standing up, I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is switch into Aiden’s body. I want him—desperately—but I don’t want to be him. It would be a certain kind of torture to be imprisoned in his body, not having access to his thoughts, his feelings, his soul. All the things that make him who he is, the person I long to truly know.

  But there’s been a healthy dose of fatalism in all of my body-swapping journeying. How much of it could I control, really? None of it. Might as well see where the whooshing takes me.

  I shake his hand, which is warm and rough in mine, manly. I don’t go anywhere and neither does he. I expel the deep breath I didn’t know I was holding and beam up at him.

  “Wonderful. This is just…wonderful,” I breathe.

  He chuckles and releases my hand. “I’ll see you later. Now go. Get started on harassing Jim on your way out.”

  I laugh and sail out of his office, high on winning the job. Aiden’s laugh follows me as I round the corner into the hallway behind his office.

  A strong hand grabs my upper arm, squeezing hard. I yelp and a calloused palm covers my mouth and shoves me against the wall. I may not have swapped bodies this time, but I’m finding a different kind of trouble.

  “What are you doing here, Evie?”

  I stare at Jim’s sneer over his punishing hand. He straightens and takes his hand away so I can talk. He keeps his grip on my arm, pinning me in place.

  So Jim knows Evie, huh? As if I didn’t have enough problems.

  “What’s it look like? I’m getting a job.”

  He laughs—a rough, cruel sound—then he’s back in my face. “Wallace is looking for you. He ain’t happy about that money you stole.”

  “What money?” I try to pull away, but he steps close—too close—and pins me in place.

  “Now see, I don’t mind the hooking. I figure it’s only right to give men what you’ve been teasing them with onstage.” He runs a hand over my collarbone and my muscles freeze. If I called for Aiden, would he hear me? Would he come? What are my chances of fighting off this guy?

  I swallow. “I don’t do that—any of that—now.”

  “Of course you don’t.” His grin is predatory and he raises his eyebrows like we have a secret. He presses closer, leaning into me. “And if you don’t want me saying anything to your boss—” his eyes shift back to the door we came through— “and you don’t want me telling Wallace where your hidey hole is, then maybe you should give me a little something.”

  I skewer him with my eyes. “You may have known me before, but you don’t know me now.” I peel his hand from my arm and consider taking some more self-defense classes. Evie gets into enough scrapes that I’m going to need a black belt if I’m her for much longer.

  “I don’t do any of that anymore,” I repeat.

  “Until you need your next fix.”

  “I’m clean,” I say.

  “You weren’t a few weeks ago.” He leans back over me, and I duck under his arm and step away.

  “I’m clean, and I’m staying that way.” His eyes are amused, but I push on. “I want this job, and I want this place to succeed, so you can just keep your mouth shut about anything you think you might know about me.”

  He studies me a moment then inclines his head in a half nod. It’s not
acceptance, but it’s a grudging temporary acquittal I’ll take. “I’m gonna keep my eye on you.”

  Join the club.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I get to Piedmont Atlanta Hospital for my daily body visit, Laurel is already there. I walk into the room and stop short when I realize she’s weeping. The sounds of her grief carry past the electronic beeps of the machines monitoring my body. Her chair is pulled up to my bedside, and she has a hand on my forearm. I pause in the doorway and gaze at them—Laurel and the used-to-be me—and think what sweet sisters they appear to be. In this light, with their faces pale under the fluorescent tubes, they even look alike, which isn’t something I’ve ever thought before.

  My second surprise is a pang of sadness that whacks me in the gut. Moisture tickles the back of my eyes, and I clear my throat to hold it at bay.

  Laurel startles and turns around. Her eyes are still streaming. “Oh, hello.” She grabs a box of tissues, which seems always to be in arm’s reach in this room. “Evie?”

  “Right,” I say. “Hi, Laurel. Here, I brought you this.” I hand her a muffin and coffee I bought on the way. Her smile is real as she takes the bag from me.

  “Thanks a lot. You’re so thoughtful.” She glances back at my comatose body. “I don’t make it out much.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” I walk to the other side of the bed and hold my body’s hand. Nothing happens, but then again, I don’t really expect it to. Still, I make it a point to come to the hospital every day and try something to get back in. It wouldn’t be fair to Evie if I gave up trying.

  “Wow! These are my favorite!” With hungry eyes, Laurel is studying the cream cheese muffin like she’s ready to pounce, and I’m glad I made the effort of hitting her favorite coffee shop, which is—predictably—not In the Cup.

  I give my hand a final pat and then go over and pull up the other chair to sit next to my sister. I try not to look at the used-to-be me’s sleeping form. It creeps me out, if I’m honest. The more I see her, the more I feel separate, distant, and decidedly as if the empty shell on the bed has nothing to do with me.

  Instead, I angle myself toward Laurel. “How are you holding up?”

  I’m still in awe of the fact that she cries so much for me. She’s always been strong. Strong and cold. And more distant since our mom died. Mostly because I think she blames me. Strangely, I don’t hold that against her. Because I blame me too.

  “Okay, I guess.” She looks at me with an attempt at a stiff upper lip, but I already see her eyes melting around the edges. She grabs another tissue and blows her nose.

  I pat her on the back. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Don’t be. It’s good. It’s fine.” I swallow and say what I really mean. “It’s nice that you love your sister so much.”

  She takes a deep breath and her body does a little shudder. “I do.” Her voice is small, and I have to lean closer to hear her.

  “Our father isn’t coming.”

  “What?” For a second I think she’s saying our father, like hers and mine, like she knows I’m Julianne inside and it’s our shared parental burden. But she’s looking at my slack body on the bed and I understand what she means.

  “Why not?” I ask. I don’t feel upset or even disappointed. I realize now that I must have given up on him a long time ago, but Laurel seems hurt by this. She starts crying again and I feel bad—guilty almost—that I don’t have more feeling for him so I could help her.

  “Because he’s a selfish bastard. Or because he never loved Julianne and me like my mother loved us. Or because he doesn’t want to face anything hard. Take your pick.”

  She’s right. About all of it. I wish I felt something other than hollow.

  “I don’t know how much Julianne has told you about our mother dying.” The topic of my mother. That’s where our real feelings reside. I almost forget to breathe. I want to hear every word.

  “Not much,” I tell her, even though of course I know everything. I want to hear it all from her perspective.

  Laurel blots her eyes with the tissue and then looks down as she smooths it out and folds it into a soggy square.

  “Our mom died in a car accident.”

  Her eyes search mine, and I nod slowly, encouragingly.

  “I think Julianne has always blamed herself.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I’d never expressed that to Laurel. Mostly because I didn’t think I had to. I assumed she blamed me. I assumed everyone blamed me. After Mom died, Dad didn’t care a thing about Laurel and me. We were in our senior year of high school and he left everything—prom, graduation, college tours—completely in our hands. We didn’t just lose Mom that day. We lost both of our parents.

  And yeah, I blame myself. Because it was my fault.

  “And you don’t blame her?” I ask.

  Laurel looks at me with wide eyes. “No, of course not. It was an accident. A car accident and Julianne wasn’t even driving.”

  “But—” I start and Laurel’s eyes snap to mine, but I’m not sure how to finish. “Wasn’t it Julianne’s fault that your mom was driving that night to begin with? I mean, I think she mentioned something about a fight with her—your—mom before or…or during.”

  Laurel exhales heavily and sits back in her chair. “I should have known Julianne would keep all that blame for herself.”

  “But seriously, don’t you blame her too? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but Julianne told me that there was…weirdness between you two since your mother died. And you never talked about it.”

  Laurel blinks at me and then turns her head away to look at her sister’s body, inert and lifeless in the hospital bed.

  “Of course there was weirdness. Neither of us ever talked about what it was like, losing Mom when we did. If I’d known how much Julianne blamed herself, though, I would have made her talk to me.”

  My eyes fill with tears I can’t help. They spill over and run down my cheeks freely. I grab a tissue.

  Laurel furrows her brow, and I wonder if she thinks I’m a drama queen, appropriating her family’s tragedy for vicarious emotion. Or maybe she’s confused that a woman she’s never heard of would be so affected by the loss of their mother. Whatever Laurel’s thoughts, she keeps them to herself and continues.

  “In a way we were closer after Mom died. We had to pull together because there was no one else. We were orphans, essentially, since our dad had all but checked out. But it was easier not to talk about Mom. Talking about her would make us dwell too much on what we’d lost, what we were missing. Even now, I can’t stand to think about the things our mother missed—the birth of my children, my wedding, Julianne’s wedding.”

  “Julianne’s not married!”

  A half smile. “No, but she will be soon, don’t you think?”

  I wonder what has given Laurel such a rosy view of my romantic prospects. Although I’ve mentioned my love for Aiden and may have—falsely—reported that he reciprocated my feelings. But even our fictitious relationship hadn’t gone that far.

  “I don’t know,” I hedge. “What makes you think that?”

  Laurel sweeps her hair back from her face. “She seems happier. More hopeful. I don’t think she’d tell me until it was a done deal—you know how she hates to tempt fate—but I think this relationship is a lot more serious than she’s let on.” She seems to realize that the upbeat assessment of my former life she’s just made is at odds with the motionless body in front of us. Her tears start anew.

  “Oh, Laurel.” I stand and give her a hug. She’s stiff at first, then relaxes into it. When she’s cried herself out, I grasp her arms. “She’s going to pull through, you know?”

  Laurel’s perfect eyebrows draw together. “Do you really think so?”

  “I know it. I feel it in my heart. She knows her place is with you. She’ll make it back here.”

  Laurel looks at the used-to-be-me again and steps out of my embrace. “I hope you’re right.” I detect a note of
bitterness in her tone. “She has to be.”

  I study her profile, wondering what she’s not saying.

  She gives a sniffle and folds her arms. After a moment she seems to come to some kind of decision. She nods to the body on the bed. “Our grandmother died of breast cancer. Did you know that?”

  I shake my head no, though of course I do know. I remember visiting Nana’s grave with our mother every Mother’s Day, Christmas, and Nana’s birthday. And plenty of times in between. Laurel and I were only six when she died, so I don’t have many memories of our grandmother. What I do have memories of was our mother’s grief.

  I learned early on that you don’t get over losing your mother. It’s a pain that never goes away.

  Laurel faces me. “They found a lump,” she says.

  I look at her, not understanding.

  “The doctors. They found a lump. In my left breast.”

  Understanding dawns, and I’m body slammed by a tractor trailer packed full of emotion. Laurel? Am I in danger of losing Laurel too? “What do they say about it? Is it cancerous?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She gets another tissue and blows her nose. “I’m scheduled for a biopsy. Doesn’t it practically have to be, though? With my family history?”

  I want to scream and cry and throw myself around my sister who is so much more fragile than I ever knew. Instead, I hug my arms to myself and try not to feel like my world is ripping apart.

  “I need her, you see?” Her voice breaks and the words are plaintive shards. She takes a steadying breath and folds one hand over the other. “My children. My children will need her when I’m gone.”

  I grab her arm, disturbing the vision of quiet strength she’s trying to project. “Laurel, you don’t know. You don’t know anything yet. This could be nothing.”

  Her smile is small as she wrests her arm from my grasp and says, as if talking to a young child, “It’s not nothing. I know it’s something. If you’d known our grandmother, then you’d know it too.”

  “But…there’s your husband. He’ll be there for you. And the kids…if it’s…if something happens.”

  She nods slowly. “I know. And Brent is a good father. A good man. He’ll take great care of them. But without me, my kids won’t know my heart.” Her voice breaks. She draws in a ragged breath. “They’re too little. They won’t know me. My sister is the only one who could give them real memories of me when I’m gone.”