Your Perfect Life: A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  Am I being punished for how I treat my family?

  “I guess we’re on our own.” Casey attempts another smile but a look of fear crosses her face, the reality now sinking in for her too, and I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking: what if we can’t switch back?

  Casey looks at me expectantly, a look I’ve seen before. From Audrey when she has a problem with one of her friends, from John when he’s stressed about not making enough money, from myself when I worry about my marriage falling apart. She needs me to tell her it’s going to be okay. “Don’t worry. Like you said, we’re two smart women. We’ve got this. Let’s go over what happened last night. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “The shots.” Casey’s eyes grow wide. “Did John spike our drinks?”

  “John? Suddenly my husband has magical powers? And why would he want us to switch bodies?”

  We both consider what that would mean.

  “Gross,” I say.

  “Yeah, gross.”

  “The bartender!” we say in unison.

  “Jinx.” Casey laughs and pinches me, reminding me of her fifteen-year-old self.

  “This has to have something to do with that bartender. I caught him giving me funny looks a few times last night,” I say, remembering how good it felt to have a young, hot guy watching me, even if he did seem a bit off. I really need to get out more.

  “He was also acting weird earlier in the night with me too. I thought he was just flirting at first. He was pretty hot.”

  “Smokin’,” I say a little too quickly.

  “But then he knew all these things about Patrick Sanders and was very intense when he talked about how high school reunions bring out the best and worst in people. There was this look he got on his face when he said ‘the worst’ like he got off on that part. On seeing people’s insecurities, their failures, their longing for their lost glory days.”

  “And remember he was the one who brought us the shots. And what did he say?”

  “That the shots would make us realize how silly we were being!” Casey says.

  “We have to find him. It can’t be that hard,” I say, thinking that if I can track down tickets to a sold-out Selena Gomez concert, I can find him.

  “At least we know his name is Brian,” Casey says excitedly.

  “Do you think that’s his real name?” I wonder aloud.

  “Bartender with magical powers or not, I know his type. He definitely gave John his real name. He wants us to find him. I can tell he gets off on all this.” Casey heads toward the door. “Come on, let’s go get our bartender!”

  “Wait. So how did you get out of the house? Where did you tell John you were going?”

  “I just told him the truth, that I needed to come over here and talk to you about last night.”

  “And he was fine with that?” I ask.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly ask him. Was I supposed to get his permission?”

  “No. But Audrey needs help with her science project and Sophie has a book report due.”

  “And why can’t John can’t handle that stuff again?”

  I exhale, not sure how to explain to her that I’m the reason he’s so reluctant to help. That I’ve corrected him and nitpicked at him so much over the years about “the right way” to do this or that, that somewhere along the line he stopped offering and I stopped asking. I thought things might be different with Charlotte, but John checked out the second I challenged his arm placement while he was trying to burp her in the hospital room. But it wasn’t me there now. It was Casey, someone who had a good heart, but also didn’t know the first thing about being married with kids. “You have to understand, John goes to work every day so that I can stay home. And those things are my—now your—job,” I say, rationalizing, even though I’m not sure how much I believe that. “So, you are going to have to suck it up, sister.” I smile sweetly to take the sting off my words.

  Casey snorts. “I’m not sure why your job is 24/7 and he’s working bankers’ hours.” She looks away before asking in a small voice, “What if I can’t do this?”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s not that hard!” I lie, thinking of how exhausted I am most days. “If we’re still like this tomorrow morning, and let’s pray that we’re not, here’s what you need to know: don’t let Sophie wear a short skirt to school. She’ll try, she’ll even fight you on it. But stand your ground. If you can, check her backpack. I caught her taking a change of clothes and some makeup to school last week. Audrey’s moody. She usually wants very little to do with me. And don’t give the baby any dairy. It gives her diarrhea.”

  “Gross.” Casey frowns in disgust.

  “Rule number one, you cannot be grossed out by baby shit or baby puke. It will give you away immediately . . .” She thinks for a moment. “This is going to be so hard being away from them. I miss them already.”

  “You even miss the shit?”

  “Yes, I even miss the shit.”

  “You wouldn’t have missed the shit this morning,” she laughs. “You’re going to have to give me some very detailed instructions on how to be you. I don’t even know what to feed your baby.” Fear washes over Casey’s face.

  “Don’t worry, okay? For now, just go home and take care of them.” I bite back the tears, my own fears taking hold. For a moment, we’re frozen, both considering what it means to fake another person’s life.

  Casey breaks the silence. “Well, you’d better get your, I mean my, ass over to the hotel and find Brian. I’ll head back to your house and try to remember something from my high school science class so I can help Audrey. Thank God for Google.” She puts her hand on the doorknob but swivels around quickly. “Wait, what do I do when John tries to kiss me?”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no chance in hell that will happen.”

  She looks at me, confused. Then she shrugs and leaves.

  • • •

  When I arrive at the hotel, I catch several people staring at me. What are they looking at? Then I remember I’m not me. I’m Casey Lee. Just twenty-four hours ago, I was cleaning spit up off my sweatshirt and now I’m a celebrity with a flat stomach in size two designer jeans.

  After I’d peeled myself out of bed this morning, my head throbbing from one too many vodka somethings at the reunion, and drowsily made my way toward the bathroom, I was in a state of euphoria despite the headache. Somehow, the hangover gods had aligned, and not only was the baby sleeping in, but neither of the girls had called for me! I practically floated to the toilet as I basked in the silence. I was dreamily washing my hands, wondering when the three-piece orchestra was going to start playing, when I’d first seen Casey’s face in the mirror over the sink.

  I’d turned off the light and closed the door and it almost didn’t register that it was her face, not mine, that I’d just seen. I was so fixated on getting back into my bed—I didn’t remember ever being so comfortable (had I used a new fabric softener on the sheets?)—that I was about to slide back under the comforter when it hit me. It had not been me that I’d seen in that mirror—my brown hair hadn’t been matted to my head, the dark circles that had taken permanent residence under my eyes had vanished, and was I naked? And that had not been my bathroom—I don’t have a heated toilet seat, my sink is a far cry from marble, and I’d most definitely never had an official hand soap dispenser!

  I’d crept back to the bathroom, my heart pounding in my ears as I turned the knob on the door. When I’d seen her face again, I’d screamed—that bloodcurdling horror movie kind—and sprinted out of the bathroom toward the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall in Casey’s closet, praying it was all just a bad dream.

  I’d spun around, studying the body in front of me from every angle, my terror slowly turning to adoration as I’d analyzed my new reflection, amazed that Casey’s thighs didn’t rub together, her butt didn’t jiggle, and her breasts still stood up on their own! Feeling creepy gawking at my best friend’s body, I surveyed the closet for something to put on. Bigg
er than Charlotte’s nursery and rivaling anything I’d seen on one of those celebrity reality TV shows, the closet was lined with shoes in every style, shelves were stacked high with jeans, hangers were draped with suits, skirts, dresses, and evening gowns—most with price tags still on them. There was an article of clothing for every occasion. So what do you wear when you’ve just taken over your best friend’s body?

  I grabbed a pair of jeans and held them up, musing that they could probably fit Sophie! I slowly slid one leg in and then the other. I prepared to do my usual deep inhale so I could suck in my stomach, but the zipper went up effortlessly. And even though I was struck by an intense fear of being trapped in Casey’s body forever, I never wanted to forget the way it felt to be able to fit into a tiny pair of jeans.

  I take the elevator up to the ballroom remembering last night all over again. How John grabbed my hand before we walked in. When was the last time he didn’t hold my hand for show? When did our marriage take a nosedive? When did I become the woman who clicked on those online articles about how to reignite the flame in your marriage? Just the other day, I actually took one of those quizzes on the Yahoo! home page to find out if I was still attracted to my husband. I clicked the screen closed before the results appeared.

  The ballroom is empty, so I ask a janitor where I can find Brian, the bartender who worked a party last night. He shrugs his shoulders and suggests the front desk.

  “Miss Lee. So nice to have you back.” A woman behind the desk wearing a badge that reads MANAGER gives me a toothy grin. “How can I help you?”

  I smile back at her. “Well, I’m looking for an employee who worked at the high school reunion last night.”

  “What’s wrong? Do you know the person’s name? I can speak with him or her right away.”

  “Oh no, it was . . . nothing like that,” I stammer. “His name was Brian and I wanted to personally thank him for his good service,” I reply. Although I’m not sure if thanking him is exactly what I want to do.

  “Was he young and blond?”

  I nod. Don’t forget those brown eyes.

  The manager, probably in her early forties, smiles to herself and I wonder if she’s also thinking about how handsome Brian is. As she clicks through her computer, her gold wedding band resembling my own, her brown hair also falling straight around her shoulders, her upper arms in need of Shake Weights, I wonder if she also has a husband who doesn’t look at her the same way anymore.

  “Here it is. Brian’s schedule. You’re in luck. He’s in our meeting room downstairs setting up for another event.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say and head toward the elevator.

  “Oh, Miss Lee,” the manager calls after me. “Can I trouble you for one more thing?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “May I have an autograph for my thirteen-year-old daughter? She’ll be so excited. She watches your show all the time.”

  Just like my daughter Sophie. Does yours also think you’re a bitch? “Sure,” I say as I sign Casey’s name on a piece of hotel stationery, realizing I have no idea what her work signature looks like. This could be the first of many things I’m going to have to fake.

  I find Brian setting up glasses on the bar. He looks up and smiles, revealing just the hint of a dimple. Is this how all men look at Casey? I could get used to this.

  “Hi. I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Casey, from the reunion last night. Double Belvedere and sodas, right?”

  “Uh, y-yes,” I stammer, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks.

  “I still can’t believe you’re old enough to have graduated from high school twenty years ago.” His brown eyes meet mine and it’s impossible to look away.

  “Guilty. I’m thirty-eight. Practically old enough to be your mother.” Did I just say that out loud?

  He flashes me another smile, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “I’m quite certain my mom doesn’t look like you.”

  I probably look a lot more like her than you realize. “So, I need to ask you a question about last night.”

  “Lay it on me,” he says as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing tan forearms.

  “It’s kind of strange.”

  “Try me.”

  “Did you put something in our shots?” I blurt out, and a woman arranging a centerpiece on a nearby table looks over.

  “Like what?” Brian answers, reaching past me to grab a case of wine, the muscles in his forearms straining.

  “Something magical?” I whisper, looking over again to see if the woman is listening. On my way over, I’d received a text from Casey warning me that I’d have to be discreet. That I’d have to be careful of people overhearing my conversations or, worse, taking cell phone pictures or video and sending them to the gossip sites.

  “Well, if you consider purple hooters magical, then I’m guilty as charged.” He breaks open the box and starts removing the bottles, lining them up neatly behind the bar.

  My heart sinks. Maybe he’s not involved in this at all, but I press on anyway, still praying that he is. “Something in addition to the alcohol . . . like a potion or something?”

  He laughs. “What do you think I am, some kind of witch? Mixing up potions in the cauldron? Give a guy a little more credit than that.”

  “What do you mean?” I start to panic. The look of satisfaction on his face sends a chill up the back of my neck.

  “I mean I’m a pro. I don’t make a witch’s brew.” He walks closer to me and tickles my ear with his breath. “I cast a spell.”

  I grab his arm and whisper back. “So you did this to us?”

  “Define ‘did this to us.’ What exactly did I do?” he asks.

  “You hijacked our bodies,” I say aggressively.

  “Did I?”

  “Last time I checked, I wasn’t a five-foot, ten-inch woman with perky breasts and a tight ass!”

  The woman arranging the centerpiece meets my eyes and I think I see a flicker of recognition. She quickly scurries out of the room and I pray it’s not to call TMZ. How does Casey live like this?

  “So you didn’t want Casey Lee’s life?”

  “No!”

  “You could’ve fooled me. You certainly didn’t seem too happy with your own last night, accusing everyone of thinking you were the least successful when I think it was really only you who believed that about yourself.” He leans back against the counter. “And Casey, she was no better, questioning her decisions while she drowned her insecurities with booze.”

  Casey questions her decisions too?

  “Look, Brian, we both had a lot to drink and said things we shouldn’t have, especially me. But it doesn’t mean you had the right to fuck with Mother Nature.”

  “So you’re saying you want your life back?”

  “Of course I want it back. I have a family.” My voice breaks slightly. “They need me. Don’t you understand that? And right now Casey is over there trying to be me . . . doing God only knows what.”

  Brian narrows his eyes and frowns. “If you want your life back, you’re going to have to figure out how to do it on your own. But it is possible. In fact, you already have what you need to make it happen.”

  “Really? That’s all you’ve got for me? Can’t we just drink two more shots and tomorrow I can wake up in my own flannel sheets with cellulite on my thighs and Casey can wake up with some hot twenty-two-year-old?”

  Brian’s mouth contorts into a cocky smirk as if to say, Like me?

  “Rachel, you’re missing the point. It’s not about the shots. It’s about why I brought you and Casey the shots,” Brian says, suddenly seeming much older than he did only moments ago.

  “Then why did you?”

  “That’s something you and Casey will have to figure out on your own.” I start to protest, but he interrupts me.

  “But listen, if you guys do figure out how to switch back, tell the real Casey to call me,” he says as he flashes me a crooked smile. And even though I’m
panicked, I can’t help it, my knees buckle beneath me just a little.

  I look down at the brightly patterned carpeting, trying to figure out how I’m going to explain to Casey that I failed. When I look back up again, Brian is gone.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  casey

  Charlotte’s cries wake me from a deep slumber in the middle of the night. Does this baby ever freakin’ sleep? I glance resentfully at John snoring next to me. And does he ever get up with her?

  I stumble into Charlotte’s room. “What’s the problem, girlfriend?” I ask her. “This is the third time you’ve been up.” Rachel assured me the baby slept through the night (one of my first questions for her), but Charlotte has been up every few hours. It was as if she knew there was an imposter in her house. I pull her out of her crib, unsure of what to do next. When Rachel had each of her kids, I was always the first to send the latest in baby couture and a few blinged-out pacifiers. But I was so caught up in my own life that I was never around to actually help her with the everyday things. And I had a strict policy about not babysitting until they were potty trained. As I put my nose up to Charlotte’s diaper to see if she needed a change, I couldn’t help but think karma is a bitch.

  I try bouncing her up and down against my chest, something I could swear I’d seen Rachel do. Or maybe it was Jessica Alba. Either way, it seems to work. Charlotte calms down quickly and eventually falls asleep in my arms. I lean in and inhale her sweet baby smell. Luckily Audrey and Sophie didn’t question me when I asked them to help me give her a bath earlier. At dinner, I told them I wanted to have some bonding time and they reluctantly agreed. As Audrey rubbed the shampoo into Charlotte’s scalp and Sophie turned on the bubble machine, I felt there was something missing. I’d imagined them playing with their baby sister, but instead they bathed her silently, Sophie reaching back to check her phone every few minutes and Audrey braiding the same section of her own hair over and over again—something I’d have to ask Rachel about later. Although I still think they were happier to be in that bathroom than at the dining room table. Never much of a cook, I prepared a meal that was almost inedible. I could barely choke it down. Rachel always made it look so easy whenever I joined them for dinner. For a long time, I’d come every Sunday night without fail, but after I won the Emmy last year and things got busier at work, I hadn’t made it as often. I’d started having Destiny call to cancel because I couldn’t handle Rachel’s disappointed tone; she didn’t understand why I couldn’t leave work on a Sunday night. I think of her having to go to work today, pretending to be me. Maybe she’ll finally get it.