Switch (19 page)

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Barb accepted a slice of cake but let it sit there while she sucked on one cigarette and then another, ogling my grandfather through the smoke.

"You have no idea how lucky you are," she told Evelyn. "You have no idea how many girls in Sandyland would give their eye-teeth to be Missus Doctor Martin."

After they left the restaurant, Evelyn was oddly silent. "Penny for your thoughts?" my grandfather said. (You'd think he'd be grateful that she'd stopped talking for once.)

"That... woman."

"Oh, Barb means no harm." My grandfather laughed. He took Evelyn's hand. "You have nothing to worry about. I promise." But the promise wasn't his to make.

"It happened a few years later," Evelyn told me. "On the Fourth of July. Your mother was three. We looked so cute that day, in our matching red-and-white-striped shirts and our starred headbands. Once it got dark, the three of us went to the beach to watch the fireworks, which weren't wonderful--it was too cloudy. I was afraid the noise would make your mother cry, but she was a tough little cookie--just covered her ears and said, 'Ooh, pretty flower!' every time a firework bloomed in the sky."

"Barb was there," I said.

She nodded. "Early on, she came over to say hello. She was one of your grandfather's patients now, and she made this big deal, thanking him for being so understanding about her headaches, her back pain, and her unexplained dizzy spells." Evelyn wrinkled her nose. "Barb's health really went in the toilet once she changed doctors."

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Evelyn's eyes--my eyes--turned glassy with tears. In this light, they looked more green than hazel. Pretty, even.

"The storm came up suddenly," she said. "Or maybe it wasn't so sudden. It was hard to see behind all the smoke from the fireworks." She took a deep breath. "And that was it."

"What was it?"

"I got stuck." She blinked away the tears. "We switched, Barb and I, right there on the beach. Her friend drove me home--Barb lived with her mother--and I went to sleep in her room. So tacky, with magazine pictures on the wall and afghans draped over everything. I tried not to get too upset, figuring I'd wake up as myself, but... no. Day after day, I was Barb, complete with her nicotine addiction, pinch-faced mother, and mind-numbing job as a supermarket checker. And she was me.

"I went to see her at my house, of course, assuming she'd be as upset as I was, as anxious to get back to her life, but..."

"She wasn't."

"Quite the contrary. She had this twisted idea that the switch was meant to be, that she deserved my husband, somehow, because she'd had a crush on him for so long. I think it was her desire that kept her in my body, the very force of it.

"I started putting pressure on her, showing up at the door and even sleeping in the yard a couple of times, thinking maybe if I was closer to my body ... It just about killed me, watching this woman steal my life--chain-smoking in front of the television, just completely neglecting my daughter. She yelled at me, threatened to call the police. But she didn't, of course. She was too afraid they'd discover she was a fraud, that she'd lose the life she

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had stolen. Finally, she cracked---just went off the deep end, so agitated that all she could do was scream and cry. I heard that she locked herself in the bedroom and refused to come out.

"Your grandfather was overwhelmed. Plus, he was afraid she'd hurt your mother." She covered her mouth. "He felt he had no choice," she said through her fingers.

"He had her committed," I said.

"Yes. The funny thing is, I was glad! I wanted that woman out of my house, away from my husband and daughter, whatever the cost."

"Was she there when you died, then?" I asked. "In your body, I mean?"

She shook her head. "Once she was institutionalized, she didn't want my body anymore. Plus, the hospital wasn't far from Barb's house. The very first night, she released her hold. I was me again."

"Terrific," I said wryly.

"Yeah. Whoopee. I thought, 'I'll be out of here in no time!' But I couldn't convince them that I was A-okay and ready to go home. Barb had changed me too. After all her chain smoking, I was a nicotine addict, just like her. Cigarettes were the only thing that controlled my jitters. Plus, the longer they kept me in there, the more upset and angry I got."

She fingered the bedspread. "Electroshock therapy was a popular treatment back then. Maybe it worked for some people. But for a switcher ..."

"My God," I whispered. I'd seen what a little spark of static electricity could do.

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"It sent me right out of myself," she said softly. "At first I floated over the hospital, but after a few days of living without a soul, my body simply ... died. My spirit thinned out and blew back to my old house." Her gaze swung around the room. "And here I am. Still."

I reached out and took her hand. It was a strange sensation, like when one of your arms falls asleep, and you stroke it with your other fingers. It's like touching you and not-you, at the same time.

"There's one more thing you should know," Evelyn said, squeezing my hand.

I wasn't sure I could handle one more thing.

"I met a couple of people at the hospital. Patients. And maybe they were truly crazy, or maybe it was because of all the drugs they gave us. But what they were talking about, the things that happened to get them committed ..." She paused to look me in the eye. "It sure as heck sounded like switching."

It took me a moment to process this. "So it's not that unusual?"

"In the general population, yes--extremely. But in mental hospitals, maybe less so. One of the patients had only switched once or twice, but talking about it still got her locked up. Understand, Claire: You must never tell anyone about your switching. Never."

I nodded, unable to speak.

"I probably should have told you all of this sooner," she said, smoothing the bedspread over her legs. "But I didn't want you to be scared."

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"Too late for that now." My voice shook. Around us, dust particles danced in the air, glinting from the sunlight. "Though this is probably even scarier for Larissa."

I glimpsed her pale face, looking back from the mirror. "Wherever she is."

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***

24

Consuela was just starting breakfast when I got back to the Ice Cube House. She barely said hello, apparently forgetting that yesterday we had been on the verge of friendship. Mr. Sealy was out on the deck, reading the paper and ignoring his sons, who were crawling around at his feet. Beyond him, the waves crashed violently.

"Is Mrs. Sealy still sleeping?" For one brief moment, I believed in luck.

"Yoga," Consuela said.

"Ah." I slipped my jogging note off of the counter.

Consuela nodded at the note. "She see that. She mad."

Downstairs, I lay on the white comforter and stared at the ceiling. I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt a tear slide down the side of my face. Another followed and then another, until my pillow was soggy. What was wrong with me? The night before, I dreaded being Claire again, couldn't stand the thought

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of losing the hair, the legs, the clothes--and, of course, Nate. But suddenly I missed my mother as if I hadn't seen her in years, and I felt bad about how upset she must be. I wanted to call Beanie to say that I'd seen Avon and Ryan sucking face on the beach. I wanted to fly through the water in the time trials, with Nate there to see me, even if he'd never look at me the same way again.

Evelyn's story had scared me, all right. How was I going to get out of here? What was I supposed to do? Stick a fork in a socket? Play golf in a thunderstorm?

Finally, I got up, washed my face, and changed into the brown bikini. I left my running clothes on the floor in case Mrs. Sealy should peek in. I pulled a different pair of shorts over the bikini and was astonished to find them a little tight at the waist--pay-back for all of those burgers and burritos.

Upstairs, Consuela was loading a tray with fruit, pancakes, eggs, and orange juice. The square white plates--three of them-- were stacked on the counter, the tray too full for them to fit. I picked up the plates. "I'll take these out."

Consuela raised an eyebrow, shrugged. "Okay."

I followed Consuela out to the deck. Immediately, the wind blew the paper napkins off of her tray.

"I'll get more," I murmured, placing the plates on the table and going inside to retrieve more napkins.

When I came back out, Cameron had taken a seat as far from his father as possible. I handed him a napkin, which he placed on the table only to watch it blow away. I held my finger up in a "shh" sign: No one had noticed.

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Mr. Sealy folded his newspaper and squinted at me. I handed him a napkin. "Thanks," he said, surprising me with something resembling manners.

It was too quiet. "Hey, Cameron, where's Prescott?"

Cameron twisted his head to peer around the deck. He shrugged.

"Mr. Sealy?" I said carefully. "Have you seen Prescott?"

A forkful of egg had almost reached his mouth. He put the fork back on his plate. "He was just here."

I ran to the edge of the deck and looked at the grass below. There was no sign of him. "Prescott?" My heart began to beat faster.

Mr. Sealy dropped his paper on the table and joined me at the side of the deck. "Prescott? Answer me!"

I dashed down the deck stairs, not bothering to check under the deck or around the house, not wasting an instant looking in the bathroom or under the beds. If he were in any of those spots, an extra minute or two wouldn't matter.

I saw him as soon as I reached the rock wall--or, rather, I saw his bright yellow floatie, and then, to my relief, I saw his little blond head in the middle of it. He was beyond the breakers, drifting out to sea.

"Prescott!" The wind blew my voice back in my face. My long blond hair tangled and swirled, the strands stinging my face.

"He's in the water!" I yelled to Mr. Sealy, who had just reached the bottom of the deck stairs. We sprinted down the concrete steps to the beach.

"Stay here--I'll get him!" he yelled. Still wearing his polo shirt and khaki shorts, he plunged into the surf.

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I stood poised at the edge of the water, blood rushing through my ears. Down here, with the waves blocking my sight line, it was harder to see Prescott. A breaker hit Mr. Sealy. He went under for a moment and then reemerged, fighting the water with a sloppy crawl stroke.

The floatie was growing smaller now. Mr. Sealy was nowhere close. Even worse, he was angling in the wrong direction.

Cameron sat at the top of the stairs, clutching his knees to his chest. "Is Prescott gonna drowned?" he whimpered.

"No!" How could anyone drown with me around? For five years in sea-guard camp, I'd been preparing for this moment.

The boogie board lay on the grass. I grabbed it and bounded back down, attaching the Velcro strap to my wrist.

The water, always cold, seemed extra-frigid today. The currents must have shifted with the incoming storm. Even if Prescott managed to cling to the floatie, he would only last for so long.

I dove under one breaking wave and then another, the boogie board strap yanking at my arm. Past the breakers, I saw a flash of yellow. I wasn't going as fast as I wanted, my arms were aching, and I was almost out of breath.

Mr. Sealy was in even worse shape, gasping for air and slapping at the water. I suddenly realized he was fighting a riptide, trying to outmuscle the sea. It was pulling me out too, the Ice Cube House shrinking in the distance.

When I caught up to Mr. Sealy, I ripped the Velcro from my wrist. "Take the board."

"No!" He gasped. "Forget about me. Just get Prescott!"

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I shoved the board in his direction. "Shut up and take it! And stop fighting the current!"

My chest hurt from the strain of breathing. My arms and legs would have ached from exhaustion if they weren't so numb from the cold. I flipped on my back and kicked, letting the current propel me toward Prescott. Finally, I was within a few strokes of the floatie. It popped up on a wave: empty. A gust lifted the yellow ring and blew it beyond my reach.

"Prescott!" Treading water, I yelled into the wind, a sob catching in my throat.

To my astonishment, I heard a cry in return. I rode up on a swell. On the other side, Prescott was just managing to hold his head above water. I kicked over, only to see him disappear under a wave. I dove down, grabbing Prescott's tiny body. I pulled him up and flipped him on his back.

"Just let me hold you, Prescott! And keep floating!" A wave splashed his face. He sputtered but didn't cry, didn't speak.

I tried to swim parallel to the beach, to get him out of the riptide and tow him to shore, just like I'd practiced a million times with fake drowners far larger than this little boy. But I couldn't do it. Larissa's body--the beautiful body with the flat tummy, slim arms and endless legs--was done. My knowledge and willpower could only do so much. I was exhausted.

A wave reared up and knocked us under the surface. We came up gagging on salt water. I expected Prescott, that tough and noisy kid, to cry or yell, but he only coughed weakly. My breathing was out of control. Prescott's lips were blue at the edges.

What would happen if I died in Larissa's body? Would I float