Secret Sister (14 page)

No, no, and no.

My thoughts flew to Zoë and my heart lurched.
That poor, sweet child, how she must be suffering.
Not only at what she thought was the loss of me, but for her brother. I loved Zoë more than a sister; more like a daughter. We had a deep, true connection. I could trust her. But the kid was clearly fragile right now. I would have to think hard about how I would ever explain this turn of events to her.

Maybe I could go to church, see a priest. “Excuse me, I’ve died and my soul, or something, was transported into my best friend’s body, and I need to know how to convince my husband it’s me inside this gorgeous human form. And by the way, my best friend is now dead, except for her body.”

Hysterical giggles poured out of my mouth at this hypothetical conversation. I tried to imagine the reply. Since neither the mental ward nor an exorcist was what I had in mind, I kept thinking.

Dr. Ryan Seth
. His name suddenly shimmered like a mirage. Roxanne and I had been going to see him the day of the accident. I’d met with him professionally before in my life. He could help me. He would know what to do.

I climbed out from under the blankets and picked up Roxanne’s cell phone. I punched in Seth’s number and left a long message, begging for his earliest appointment. He would see Roxanne’s name, but I never lied and said I was her.

I shut off the cell and took two pain pills, craving black-out sleep.

Dr. Seth. I said his name over and over, like a mantra. Tomorrow would be the first full day in part two of the life of Cathy Chance. He could help me.

He must.

Chapter 13

Thursday, July 28, 10 a.m.

Dr. Seth’s Office

“Roxanne! Come in!”

No, it’s me, Cathy
.

“Hi, Dr. Seth. How are you?” I paused for a moment and regarded him. He stood across the room, leaning against his desk.

Ryan Seth was over six feet tall and lanky. His shaved head accentuated his well-shaped skull. He had a manicured salt-and-pepper beard and generous mouth. Like his personality, Dr. Seth was equal parts inquisitive and comforting.

He held his arms wide open. “Come over here, Roxanne. Let me give you a hug.”

“Thanks so much for getting me in here this morning.” I walked to him.

Seth, as all his clients called him, took a couple of steps. Though blind, he moved confidently in his serene, sparely furnished office. He’d lost his sight as a child, when a pot of soup he pulled off the stove scalded him.

“Of course, my dear. I was delighted you reached out to me.” He hugged me without reservation and then held me at arms’ length. “How are you feeling? You have been much on my mind.”

No beating around the bush with Seth. I settled myself on the leather sofa across from his rattan chair.

Where to begin?
“I was lost, but now I’m found,” I blurted out.

He showed surprise at my quoting lyrics from Judas Priest, Nick’s favorite British heavy metal band from the Eighties. Not as surprised as I was, however. Another lyric from the song flitted across my brain.
Staying on course, I’m still alive.
But
I couldn’t jump that far into my story.

Seth sat in his rattan chair, his sightless eyes turned toward the glass walls of his office. He worked in a space connected to the log cabin he lived in, out in the woods, two thousand feet up into the Verdugo hills. The view from where we sat was heavily treed and quiet, with blue skies. Mt. Baldy loomed in the distance.

“You’ve been through hell since we last met,” Seth said. “I hear it in your voice. Despite what you say, I think you may still be lost in the wilderness.”

I blew out my breath as if I were in labor. “The accident was terrible.” Those words mentally transported me to the scene of the wreck as violently as if I’d been jerked by the neck. I felt the heat off the pavement and smelled the gunpowder from the airbags, heard tires burst, a fire igniting.
And my bones breaking.
And screaming. Roxanne, screaming.

“I was so frightened,” I whispered.

Dr. Seth remained still. “You remember everything, then? The accident? Dr. Patel said you had amnesia.”

“I did. Until last night.” I began to shake, head to toe tremors. In the past any despair in my voice brought Dr. Seth to my side. He‘s a touchy-feely guy in a totally non-creepy way, all comfort and no seduction.

But today he remained in his papa-san chair, his hands folded in his lap, his face averted.

I cried and grabbed the tissue box beside me. “I’ve been having glimpses and pieces of memories since I woke up in the hospital. I couldn’t understand how they fit together, but since moving to Roxanne’s apartment, more things started to click into place. When my friend Bradley Chandler took me to dinner at Simone’s last night, I saw something that triggered a key memory, and I remembered everything. I remembered
who
I am.”

“What did you see that brought your identity back to you?” Dr. Seth asked.

“
The Bridge at Bougival,
a painting by Monet. There’s a print of it in the restaurant ladies’ room.”

“Is this painting special to you in some way?”

“Yes. I saw the original when I was a child. At the museum with my mother, at a wonderful show called ‘A Day in the Country.’ It was the last time I remember my mother not suffering. She died of cancer a few weeks later.”

Seth didn’t move. “Your mother is alive, Roxanne. Why would you say she died when you were small?”

“I . . .” My voice cracked. I searched for a way to start this extraordinary conversation, to convince Seth of what had happened, but of course there was only one obvious first sentence. “I’m not Roxanne.”

Seth got up, walked to my chair, and knelt in front of me. He took my hands in his. “Go slowly, now. What’s happened? Tell me what you mean, that you are not Roxanne.”

Blood rushed to my head and I saw spots in front of my eyes. I swayed and started to slip into a faint and felt myself transported to that stretch of road in the Verdugo Hills, Roxanne by my side. The accident memory enveloped every cell of me. I floated above a scene of disaster and recognized my body, sprawled, unmoving and terribly hurt. My arm lay in the middle of the street amidst a flood of red.

A dark-haired woman pulled me, urging me not to look down. I floated higher, airless sky and blue stars enveloping me. A siren screamed, and everything went black and I could no longer see the road or the poor blonde girl with the missing arm.

The woman hovered above me, murmuring, “
I wish I were you, Lupeyloo.”
The words were a chant, a lullaby, a dirge, and  I realized the truth
.
The dark-haired woman was Roxanne. She was dying. And I was already dead.

But then my friend grasped my hand, sending energy from her into and through me like a million volt shock, and I was reborn.

Above that blood-soaked highway, I turned to plead with my dearest friend in the world not to leave me, but she pulled out of my grasp and I fell spinning through space back to earth and woke up in the hospital nine days later.
Alive.

Inside Roxanne’s body.

I opened my eyes, gripping Seth as if I was a frightened child. “Roxanne’s dead,” I whispered against his ear. “I’m Cathy Chance. Oh my God, please believe me, Seth. I don’t know what to do.”

“Shh. Breathe in and out slowly,” he said. “Come fully into the present.”

I realized I had been narrating my memories of July 9 aloud. I felt lighter then, relieved that another person now knew the truth of what had happened to me. And to Roxanne.

“I’m here,” I said.

Seth released me and sat on the floor. He crossed his legs and arms and rocked back and forth. He didn’t appear shocked, or horrified, or even disbelieving. He seemed to concentrate, his brow furrowed.

After a few moments, he turned to me. “May I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes.”

For what seemed like hours, Seth queried me. I poured out descriptions of scenes of my life I could remember, from childhood to July 9, rehashing in particular details of experiences that Seth and I had discussed years ago when he had worked with me on anxiety issues.

Occasionally I wouldn’t recall the complete memory, but the vat of facts I disgorged astounded us both. My brain felt like a runaway locomotive, gathering speed and energy as Seth asked about events from Cathy’s life, from
my life
. I knew he was testing me, asking me to prove who I really was to him. And maybe to myself.

When at last Seth stopped asking and I stopped answering, he brought me a drink that tasted of lemon and warmth. I drank it to the bottom and leaned into his leather sofa and fell into a restful state, awake but disengaged, one blink from deep sleep.

Seth returned to his desk. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” My eyes drifted closed. “I’m so tired though, I may fall asleep.”

“Let go and relax now. I’m going to call a doctor I went to university with, Elias Fox. He practices in Boston. He’s an expert neurologist known for his research with people who were pronounced clinically dead but were brought back to life with intervention. He authored a paper a few years ago dealing with amnesiacs, and how this condition is commonly exhibited by patients declared dead but then revived. So, just rest for a few minutes while I try and reach him.”

Alarm spread through my exhausted nervous system. “Wait, please.” I sat upright. “Why are you calling him? You don’t believe me?”

Seth blinked. “I believe
you believe
what you are telling me is true, my dear. But I am not a psychiatrist or a neurologist. I want to ask Elias a few questions about the physical structure of the brain, and rule out a couple of other things before I can tell you I accept everything you’ve told me is the truth.”

“What if Dr. Fox says I’m crazy?” That possibility washed over me. Could I be Roxanne? Was I hallucinating that I was Cathy Chance? I had considered this explanation several times since my epiphany in the restaurant.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Seth replied. “And I’ll keep your name confidential when I talk to my old friend. Please understand I’m seeking more information so I can help put
your mind
at ease, not mine.”

I lay back down on the sofa and listened, but not too closely, as Seth talked to Dr. Fox. I allowed my bruised mind to wander. Surprisingly, I felt full of joy. Someone now knew what had happened to me; someone I trusted might be able to help me find a way to convince Nick.

I could hardly bear to think of the pain Nick must be suffering. It wasn’t hubris, or arrogance, to think he was devastated at losing me. I understood this kind of agony, for I now felt it for Roxanne.

Nick had looked gaunt and pained last night. Yet dear and familiar and wonderful. Seeing him sent a thrill through me I could not put into words. While his disdain stung because he did not, could not, see me waiting inside the flesh and bones I inhabited, I knew I could find a way to reach him.

As I relaxed on the sofa, Seth’s side of the phone conversation seeped into my brain.

“Confabulation?” Seth’s voice rose. “Yes, of course. Many patients who have false memories of being abducted by aliens, or molested by their parents, or who think they are Jesus Christ, can be said to be in the grip of a fantasy. But my patient recalls in almost total detail, with provable facts, her own discreet life experiences. Based on what she told me today, I would vouch for the authenticity of her identity in a court of law, if I had to.”

I trembled and hugged myself, acutely aware how insane my story sounded.

“No, I don’t plan to bring her to anyone else right now,” Seth said. “Especially not as a study subject. It is my patient’s information, her story to share. Or not to share. Surely you see the validity of this position, Elias.”

A pause, then Seth laughed gently. “Thank you. Of course I trust your discretion. But before I hang up, may I ask if your research has ever led you to anyone who has similarly claimed to have died and been transferred, for lack of another word, into another person’s body?”

Silence.

“So there have been other cases like this, but you’re not willing to totally accept that they were telling the factual truth?” He smiled gently. “Are you not religious, Elias? No more ‘leap of faith’ capability? I seem to remember your grandfather was an Episcopal priest.”

He listened for several moments and nodded. “Yes, but there are millions who believe in a resurrection, in heaven and hell. In other words,
in miracles
. I’m agnostic, but I do believe things happen that man can’t explain but must accept . . .”

I closed my eyes in gratitude. Dr. Seth believed me. He accepted this un-provable story I told as provable fact. And if he had, then Nick could, too.

I
was
a miracle. It was as complicated, and as simple, as that.

I spent the next couple of hours on Seth’s sofa dozing and recouping my strength. Seth left to teach an afternoon class, and came back with sandwiches. We ate and chatted like dorm school chums, steering clear of the topic at hand.

Finally, about four p.m., Seth asked, “So, what’s next, kiddo?”

“I want to talk to Nick.”

Seth wiped his fingers on the napkin he’d stuck in his shirtfront. “And say what, exactly?”

“Hi, this is your wife. I’m coming home.” I laughed. “Of course I’d never do that.”

Seth didn’t look fully convinced. “Maybe I should call Nick,” he said.

“You?”

“Yes. I saw him at the memorial service. Your service,” he added. “Wow, how weird is that to say to another person?”

“Very weird.” I took a deep breath. “How did it go? One of the women at St. Anne’s said she found it moving.”

“It was.” Seth frowned as if unsure about sharing certain details. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to call Nick and see if we could have a private visit. We have a long history together. I think I can lay some groundwork for him to think about what’s happened a little differently.”

I sat up straight. “You mean you’ll tell him what I told you today?”

“No. That’s not information that can come from me. But I can gauge his temperament, feel out his ability to accept the unorthodox. Is Nick a spiritual man, in your opinion?”

“Yes. No. Let me think.” I wasn’t sure what Seth meant by spiritual. “He’s not religious. But he’s compassionate. He’s brilliant and curious about life. Nonjudgmental. That’s one of the first things I loved about him. He’s always open to new things.”

“So he’ll be open to the possibility that something amazing happened? To you. And to him.”

“I think so. Maybe you could pose a hypothetical, ‘So Nick, if you could get your wife back from the dead, would you want her?’ That would be a start.”

This time we both laughed.

“Okay, one last question, Cathy. Is there any chance Nick wouldn’t be overjoyed at your return?”

I grinned at being called by name, but thought again of the sexual betrayal I’d committed with Michael, and sobered up. “None. Nick loves me. There’s zero possibility my husband wouldn’t welcome me back.”

As long as I don’t tell him some things.
I pushed this aside. Someday I would tell Nick about Michael. He would forgive me. If it had happened to Nick, I would forgive him.

Wouldn’t I?

My heart pounded faster
.

“Do you have any plan about how you’ll convince him it’s you standing in front of him?” Seth asked.

“I’ll tell him the truth, just like I told you.” I could picture it, could feel his arms around me and his mouth on mine. “I can’t wait to tell him.”