“Do you need to get that?” A asks.
“No. All that can wait.”
I am too comfortable. I can feel my eyelids starting to flutter themselves closed.
“Don’t leave me yet,” A jokes.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
A’s voice is so gentle, it ushers my eyes closed. But I am still holding on to A’s hand. I am still here.
“I can’t believe I have to drive back tonight,” I say.
“There’s no way you’re driving back in this.”
“I have to. I have school tomorrow.”
“It’s a snow day.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
A’s thumb is running up and down my wrist. Time slows to the rhythm of this movement.
Soothed. I am soothed.
The radio stays off. The phone stays in my pocket. A’s hand still touches mine. The snow continues to fall.
I slip so seamlessly into dreaming.
A
Day 6133 (continued)
As she drifts off, I close my eyes, too.
This is what I’ve wanted: to slow down the frequency of expectation and doubt, to find the nameless peace of following each other and following the day.
I can sense when the snow stops falling. There are more people walking by, and the sound of shoveling. I don’t disturb Rhiannon. I turn off the car and hope our own heat will hold us until she wakes.
RHIANNON
It’s only when we’re walking to dinner that I take out my phone. I have to call my mother and explain to her that the snow has prolonged my college visit, that I’m crashing another night on the dorm room floor of a fictional girl who used to go to my high school. I figure at least some of the messages have to be from Mom—and maybe there will be a couple from Alexander as well. I’m surprised to see that while both Mom and Alexander are represented, most of the messages are from Nathan.
“Wait a second,” I tell A.
Something’s going on.
X
The pain should be gone. I do not understand why it’s not gone. That body has already been forgotten. Yet even in this new body, I will feel a twinge in my chest. Instinctively I will feel the crash about to come, the explosion about to rise.
But nothing happens. Because I am in a healthy body. I am fine.
You hear the phrase all the time: a brush with death. What they don’t tell you is that the brush has paint on it. And once it touches you, you can’t get it off. Not even if you change bodies. Because it’s not the body that’s been brushed—it’s the mind.
I must get over this. Otherwise, things will slip.
Case in point:
Three mornings ago, I woke up in a new body.
I did not choose to leave the body I was in. But I could feel its resistance. I could feel him kicking at the door. And maybe I thought the kicking was other things, another attack coming on. Whatever the case, when I went to sleep that night, I didn’t tamp him down hard enough. Or maybe I didn’t want to stay badly enough. Maybe worry—stupid, persistent worry—did that.
The result? I woke up as a woman who needed a cane to walk.
Unacceptable.
The next day: a man scheduled for surgery in a week.
I thought, Are you kidding me?
Yesterday: an eighteen-year-old wrestler.
Much better.
Even so, I rooted around his medical history, to make sure all was well. Or at least all was well as far as he knew. Beyond a broken arm in fifth grade and a case of mono in eighth, I was in the clear. He liked his life, so I knew it would be a bit of a fight to stay. But I needed his life, so I could fight harder than he could comprehend.
I dug in. I’m still here.
But even in this body, I am struck by a wavering, an uncertainty. As if his heart knows what the other heart went through. As if the mind is turning itself so the brush marks show.
And with this reminder of pain comes a nearly subconscious call for urgency. If I had children, I suppose I’d feel I should spend more time with them. If I were searching for a cure for cancer, I’d step it up. If I were building an ark, I’d tell my wife to gather the animals.
But I don’t have any people like that in my life. Or projects. I only have the person I’m trying to find.
I sigh, pack up the wrestler’s gear, and throw in a knife for good measure.
NATHAN
After getting caught having sex-not-really in the bathroom, I’ve had to find a new library to study in. I know I’m probably exaggerating the importance and memorability of the moment for anyone besides myself, but I can only guess what would happen if the connection was made—I don’t think my parents would ground me so much as they would bury me in the ground and build a new house on top of me, to keep me from getting another stamp on my Sinner Card.
I’m only a couple of towns over from mine, but I don’t recognize anyone, which is great. Of course, in the back of my mind, I can’t help but worry that one of these new faces is actually a mask hiding Poole. And if someone’s paying extra attention to me—well, it starts to move to the front of my mind.
Like this girl. She keeps looking over. And when I look up, suddenly she finds the book in front of her interesting again.
It’s a slow Sunday at the library. Mostly it’s parents and kids gearing up for story time at two o’clock. Then there’s me. And there’s this girl, with a sports duffel next to her and a book with a title I can’t make out. When I try to see what it is, it’s her turn to catch me, and I imagine both of our glances shoot away.
I try to ignore it. I tell myself if I stay in public, everything will be fine. No bathroom breaks. And OF COURSE the minute I start to think that, my bladder starts raising its hand, desperate for me to call on it.
Not. Helpful.
At least the bathrooms in this place aren’t single-user. So I wait until I see a dad bringing his three sons into the men’s room. Safety in numbers. Then I bolt for it, keeping my eye on the girl the whole time.
The peeing goes fine. I might break a speed record. When I get back, the girl isn’t in her seat—she’s wandering past my carrel, looking at my stuff. Not, like, pawing through it or anything. But definitely scoping it out. Then she disappears into the stacks, so I get a chance to look at the book she’s reading—something called Memoirs of an Invisible Man.