by B. N. Toler
Twisting my neck, I looked back at Pim in her travel crib. She was out cold, her giraffe clutched tightly to her. “I’ll be right back, baby,” I whispered as if she would hear me. Whipping the door open, I sprinted out, quietly leaping like a gazelle toward the dining room. All of the lights were out in the apartment except for the television, but it didn’t take me long to whisk into the dining room and find my phone right where I’d left it.
Picking it up, I dialed Matt’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
“Damn it,” I muttered to myself as I clenched my phone a little tighter. Matt’s voicemail message was way too long and he played an old school rap song in the background. It was so lame. I reminded myself to give him hell about it when he got home. When it beeped, I kept my voice low. “Matt. It’s Waverly. I need your help. It’s about Max. I think . . .” I paused, unsure how to word what I wanted to say. “Look, just call me as soon as you get this. Please.”
Just as I ended the call, the dining room light flicked on. Jerking around, I found Max, water dripping from his hair and droplets beaded on his skin. In one hand he held a towel loosely around his waist.
My eyes were wide as I blinked rapidly, staring at him. His features were slack, his expression unreadable as he watched me. That changed quickly. It seemed like it happened in slow motion as I watched realization dawn on him. His eyes darted from my face to my feet which were both firmly planted on the ground, no crutches in sight. Bobbing his head up and down, I knew what he was thinking, how he was putting two and two together.
The one thing that concerned me most was: had he heard the message I’d left for Matt?
“Looks like your ankle is better,” he noted as he tightened the towel around his waist.
Lifting my foot slightly, I tilted my head. “It’s a little better,” I fibbed, feigning slight discomfort. “Think I need to go easy, though.”
He let out a laugh through his nose, an annoyed smile curving his lips. He saw right through me. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he agreed before running a hand through his wet locks. “You need some help getting back to bed?”
“Well—”
“Here, let me help you,” he interrupted before I could reply. In the span of a few brief seconds, he’d scooped me up in his arms causing me to shriek in surprise.
“Max,” I gasped as I held tightly to his shoulders. “I don’t need you to carry me.”
“Oh, sorry,” he feigned remorse as he hastily dropped me to my feet. I landed hard, and it took me a few seconds to realize I didn’t react like a person that had just landed on a bad ankle. “I was only trying to help,” he continued.
I stared at him, not knowing what to say. He’d busted me, but I’d busted him, too. He just didn’t know it yet. A part of me wanted to confront him about what I’d overheard, another part of me was scared to. What choice did I have?
“I heard you,” I choked out, even though I felt strangled with uncertainty.
His expression remained stoic. “Heard what?”
“You and Helen . . . in the kitchen earlier. That was crazy talk, Max. And who . . . who is Liam?”
When he took a step toward me, I took one back. He stopped in his tracks, a deep furrow forming between his brows as he realized I was afraid of him. His mouth curved down and his eyes were riddled with hurt. With a nod I took as him saying he understood, he stepped back.
My breathing became slightly labored as my blood pumped hard through my veins. “You’re not well Max. And Helen . . . she’s either unwell, too, or she’s encouraging you.”
He snorted a laugh through his nose again, apparently humored by my assessment.
“It’s not funny, Max,” I boomed. “If you aren’t right up here,” I pointed to my head, “you have no business being around Pimberly.”
This time his face contorted with my words, his eyes narrowing at me in anger. “You think I’d hurt her? Are you fucking serious?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I snapped back at him, my face warming in frustration. “You apparently tried to kill yourself.”
Rolling his eyes, he let out a long frustrated growl as he fisted his hair. “God damn it, Max,” he muttered.
Slowing my breathing, attempting to calm myself, I realized if Max was sick, if he indeed was having some kind of mental breakdown or episode, no matter how I felt about him or our past, I had to try and help him. I was a social worker—or I was trying to be one anyway. I had an obligation. If I didn’t, who else would? Helen? Clearly, that lady knew Max was riding the crazy train, and she was steadily chucking coal into the engine. She definitely wouldn’t be any help to him.
So that left me.
“I can help you, Max,” I began, softening my tone, hoping it would make him feel less threatened. “You need professional help.”
Dropping his head, he closed his eyes and grinned as he placed his hands on his hips. “You don’t understand, Waverly,” he murmured. “And I don’t . . .” he paused, raising his chin and meeting my gaze, “I don’t know how to make you understand.”
He was talking. This was good. If he opened up, maybe I could figure out where his head was and what we were dealing with. Was he manic, bi-polar? The more I could find out now, the better aid I’d be able to get him when we got him to a professional. I just had to keep him talking. “What don’t I understand, Max?”
“I’m not Max,” he said firmly. “I’m not Max Porter.”
I blinked a few times, unmoving and remained silent, racking my brain for what might be wrong with him. Could he have some kind of multiple personality disorder?
Shaking his head, he snickered in frustration. “There’s no point in this.” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “You’ll never believe it.”
“Why won’t I believe it?” I asked, desperate to keep him speaking to me.
“Because you fucking hate Max,” he snapped.
“You?” I questioned. “You’re Max, Max,” I pointed out. “And . . . I-I don’t hate you.”
“You’ve been busting my balls since we met at The Mill that night, and I know Max has been a real piece of shit to you, and I’ve tried to be understanding, but damn woman,” he huffed. “You know how to wear a man down.”
The fear and uncertainty I felt melted away as pity washed over me. He was referring to himself in the third person again. I realized whoever Max thought he was, he did not think he was Max Porter. So I decided to play along, wanting to provide the doctor I was determined to get him to with as much information as possible.
“Okay. If you aren’t Max, then who are you?” I asked, my voice raspy.
His shoulders sagged. “My name is Liam. Helen is my sister.”
The blood drained from my face. Damn, this was worse than I thought. Was Helen crazy, too, or had she just latched on to a mentally unstable man and played along with his disillusions so she could steal his money?
Just then my cell rang. Not turning my head, I shifted my eyes to it.
It was Matt calling me back.
Picking my phone up, Max handed it to me. “You can answer,” he said simply. “Though, I wish you’d give me a chance to explain before you call in your backup.”
When the cell stopped ringing, it immediately started again. Matt was calling back. Of course he was. I’d left him a cryptic voicemail and mentioned the name of a man he loathed. I knew answering and easing his concerns would be wise, but I was worried if I did that, Max would change his mind about opening up to me. This was a pivotal moment. I needed Max to agree to get help, but before I could encourage that, I had to make him trust me. I had to make him see I genuinely wanted to help him. Taking my phone from his hand, I ended the call and powered it off. Max’s mouth was in a tight flat line, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he watched me, waiting for me to say something.
“Okay, Max,” I said quietly as I set the phone back on the table. “Explain.” Taking his hand in mine, I squeezed.
I felt it.
&nb
sp; Again.
The shock from our connection.
My heartbeat whooshed in my ears as we rode the elevator up to the fourth floor of the hospital. At every floor, a ding sounded, like a warning call; a reminder that my bad situation was about to get worse. I glanced down at Pimberly who was curled up, asleep in the wagon with her thumb in her mouth, hoping it wouldn’t wake her. I wasn’t happy about having to drag her out so late at night, but drastic times called for drastic measures. Waverly was convinced Max had gone mad and wanted to commit him. I needed to do everything in my power to convince her I was telling the truth.
My palms were sweating so I wiped them on my pants as I worked hard to remain calm. Glancing at Waverly I found she was staring at me. Her brows were lifted slightly as she watched me like she was equal parts concerned and scared of me.
“Thank you for doing this,” I managed after a beat. “I wish we could have left her at home and let her sleep.”
Waverly nodded a few times and faced forward, her eyes trained ahead. “She’s a heavy sleeper.”
The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped out onto the mutely colored tiled floors. I gently pulled the wagon behind me. The hospital lights were bright, but the floor was quiet and practically empty. A few nurses were behind the station desk, but didn’t bother to look up as we passed by. When we reached the door to the room where my body was, I stopped and turned to face her.
“It’s all going to sound crazy,” I admitted. “I know you already think Max is crazy, but promise me. Promise me you’ll listen.”
She cut her gaze to mine. Nothing about her expression or the forlorn look in her eyes gave me any hope in convincing her of my story, but in spite of the overwhelming hopelessness I was feeling, I knew at this point all I could do was try.
“Liam is in here?” she questioned. Even though she didn’t promise, I moved forward.
“Well, my body is here,” I explained. Looking to the nurse’s station, I noticed one of the nurses watching us, so I decided we better move inside the room before I went any further.
Opening the door, I let Waverly enter first, then I quietly pulled the wagon in and closed it. The monitor next to the hospital bed beeped and an air pumping sound whooshed as it moved oxygen in and out of the lungs of my body. Waverly walked to the bedside and stood, staring at the man that lay before her—staring at me—my body. I wanted to tell her it was the room’s poor lighting, the drab colors of the walls and hospital gown that made me look so . . . frail and feeble, but that would’ve been a lie. These things certainly didn’t help, but even before the accident, I’d looked bad. Living on the streets had slowly squeezed the life out of me, leaving only a shell of the man I had been before.
The one thing I could say for myself was that my beard had been trimmed and I looked clean. My hands and fingers were free from dirt, and my fingernails were short and no longer caked with grime. My hair had been washed, but it was longer than I liked. I didn’t look good, but I knew I’d looked worse.
“This is Liam?” Waverly asked.
“That’s my body,” I answered. “I believe Max is trapped in my body.”
This time her brows furrowed as disbelief seized her features. “And you’re paying this man’s medical bills?”
“Yes,” I admitted, feeling guilty. “I know it’s Max’s money, but I needed some time to figure out why this was happening.”
“And this man,” she pointed at my body lying in the hospital bed, “is Helen’s brother?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Max,” she breathed. “You don’t find this odd?”
I stared at her like she was crazy. Hell yes, I found it odd. “Do you think I asked to switch bodies with Max?” I snapped.
Her eyes teared up as she peered at me. “Max . . . you’re not well. This woman, Helen, has clearly taken advantage of you when you’re in this state making you believe you’re her brother, so you’ll pony up and pay for her brother’s medical bills.”
I raised a hand, stopping her. “That’s not the case,” I informed her, adamantly. I realized better than anyone how crazy this all sounded and how if spun the wrong way could make it look like Helen preyed on a mentally ill man, but Helen was a saint. Even though Waverly had genuine concern, I couldn’t bear for her to assume or have such harsh accusations directed toward my sister. “You said you’d hear me out. If you don’t believe me when I’m finished, I’ll help you get Pim and your stuff packed up, and get you back home.”
“You need help,” she reiterated.
“I don’t need help, damn it!” I boomed throwing my hands up. “I’m not . . .” shaking my head I let out a long frustrated breath, reminding myself to keep my voice down. I didn’t want to disturb Pimberly. “I’m not crazy,” I gritted through clenched teeth.
“No?” she questioned like I was ridiculous. “It sounds completely sane and rational when you tell me you’ve switched bodies with this man.”
“You think I don’t know it sounds crazy?”
“Okay, Max. Or should I call you Liam?” she quipped. Damn, she could be a smartass. Up until this point, she’d been pretty calm; she’d seemed like she was listening. I guess her patience was wearing thin. “I’ll humor you. Tell me. How, pray tell, did you end up switching bodies?”
“I was on the street,” I began, my voice edged with panic.
“The street?” she questioned.
“I was homeless,” I explained, my gaze dropping for a moment as shame riddled me. “I’d been out there a while. I’d lost my job a few months before and then my apartment and . . . anyway, I ended up on the street.”
I spoke softly and slowly, working hard to keep my voice steady. I told her about how I fell down the stairs which led to me losing my job, which led to me ending up on the streets. I told her about my love for motorcycles, about Helen and our childhood, and finally, I told her about the only encounter Max Porter and I ever had.
Staring down at my body I said, “He looked at me like I was trash. In his defense, I probably looked like I’d just walked straight out of a dumpster. Of course, he . . . he looked like he had everything.”
“You’re a very wealthy man, Max,” she agreed.
“I’m. Not. Max.” I stated firmly, my patience wavering. “And his money isn’t shit,” I seethed. “He has no one. I’m stuck in this man’s body, hated by everyone, including you.”
“I don’t hate you,” she insisted.
“No,” I agreed. “You hate Max. Not a lot of good you liking me, Liam, if I’m trapped in the body of the man you hate.”
She rolled her eyes and looked away from me, staring down at my body in the hospital bed.
Maybe she was tired of hearing my story. Maybe she would never believe me, but damn it, I was going to finish. “Max was at the corner about to cross the street,” I continued. “When I came up behind him, intending to cross the street as well, he seemed so disgusted by me that he stepped out onto the street. There was a bus coming and I . . . I pushed him out of the way.”
“And that’s how this guy,” she pointed at my body in the bed, “ended up here.”
“How my body ended up here. Yes. I woke up days later in Max’s apartment and in his body. That was the day you called him about meeting at The Mill.”
“Max,” she rasped, emotion thick in her tone. “What you’re saying . . . it’s impossible.”
I fisted my hair. I was beyond frustrated. I had never been a man of many words, and I seldom ever knew the right thing to say which only frustrated me more. Rounding the bed, I approached her. She backed away until she couldn’t anymore, stopped by the medical equipment standing by the bed. With only a few inches between us, I took her hand and placed it on my chest over my heart, that same shiver rushing through me when we touched. When she tried to pull her arm back, I gripped her wrist and held it there, refusing to let it go. Peering deeply into her eyes, I pressed my other hand over hers where it sat on my chest. In the space that hung between us, wi
thout words, I begged her to trust me. To relax. To shut down her brain and search for the truth with her heart. After a few brief moments she relaxed, the tension melting away, her gaze drifting away with it.
“Look at me, Waverly,” I begged, quietly. “Please.
Hesitantly, she moved her tear-filled stare to mine. “I’m not Max. You know it’s true. Deep down, you know it. It’s not a mental illness or multiple personalities. Ever since we met at The Mill that night, you’ve said it over and over, that I’m different. It’s true. I’m Max’s polar opposite.”
Using her free hand, she wiped at her nose, but said nothing.
The machines beeped, the ventilator whooshed, our breaths huffed, but she still said nothing. I realized at that moment I had no more words. I had no voice. All I had was this diminishing moment to show her, to prove to her what I was saying was the truth. Moving my hands to her head, I gently grasped her face and wholeheartedly and unapologetically kissed her.
At first, she struggled to escape it, pressing her hands against my chest in a weak attempt to push me away. She faintly grunted in protest, but only a little and briefly; not like a woman that seemed to feel accosted or forced, but more like she wanted to seem like she didn’t want it—want this. Because if she did want it; if she did crave the kiss of a mad man, what would that mean?
It would mean that she was crazy, too.
After a moment, she succumbed, her body going limp in my arms as she held my shoulders firmly. I kissed her with desperation, like a man that knew this was make or break. I kissed her like I would never kiss her again because that was most likely the case if she refused to believe me. Pressing her body to mine, I lifted her slightly, a low growl escaping me as I softly sucked her lower lip.
