She's Me (The Vicarage Bench Series) Page 2

  “Today? It’s August 7th, 1963.”

  Chapter Three

  She swooned. She gasped. Then she threw up in a vase from which John had ripped the flowers in a timely fashion.

  “There, there. You’ll be fine. Keep your head down.” He gave her a damp cloth to bathe her face.

  “You don’t understand. I woke up this morning on August 7th, 2006.”

  “Where is your wallet?” He spread all her documents over the stick-legged coffee table, and they perused them together. Her birth date on one document revealed her to be twenty-five as of three weeks ago, July 17th, 1963.

  “It’s the same date as my birthday, except for the year. At least I didn’t change to a man or become old,” she said showing a bit of humour for the first time.

  “Write your name and this address. I want to see if your handwriting is the same.”

  “How do you spell McGillicuddy?”

  “You are joking, right?”

  “How should I know how to spell her name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “Lucy’s name, of course. Isn’t that who we’re talking about?”

  He looked at her piercingly. Her features were perplexed, even sad, but without an ounce of guilt or duplicity.

  John said thoughtfully. “I have a friend, Robert Andrews, who might be able to help sort this problem out. He’s a psychologist. I know it’s a relatively new form of medicine, but I can assure you that it’s an acceptable practise and helpful to many patients.”

  “A shrink? Sure, yes—it’s a good idea. Maybe he can hypnotize me, or give me some kind of fancy drugs so I can get my life back.”

  “Right. Well, that’s fine, then.” He was openly shocked by her easy acceptance of his suggestion. “You rest tonight. I’ll notify the library so they will be aware that you are under medical care for a short time, and I will be here to introduce you to Dr. Andrews in the morning.”

  “He’ll come here? A house call?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be able to fit you in.” The truth was that to the ordinary working person in 1963 psychiatry was an unknown practise, and many people referred to Dr. Andrews and his form of medicine as quackery. A new patient would be a roundabout relief to the scholarly fellow whose nose was, more often than not, happily buried in some large tome. His practise was seldom busy.

  After John left, Jenna was restless and turned to the television, expecting to see normal programming, though she knew the late-night shows from New York City wouldn’t be on here in England. She was disappointed with a buzzing black-and-white test pattern, proving that it was late in the evening and the networks were finished for the day.

  Oh, God,I’m in hell. She slowly made her way to the fussily-decorated main bedroom, where pink reigned supreme, including the rose-colored chenille bedspread detailed with tiny rosebuds and the white lacy dresser skirt and chair skirt intertwined with pink flowers and ribbons.

  In the wooden wardrobe she found a voluptuous granny nightgown that, sadly, fit her bloated body, and in the bathroom she giggled uncontrollably when she spied the bag of curlers and the silk cover that was apparently supposed to be worn to keep them in place.

  “I don’t wish to intrude, but what’s so blasted funny?”

  Jenna looked around suspiciously, wondering where those words came from. Am I hearing voices now?

  She refused to look in the mirror. With disgust, she threw away the cheap facial products she found in the drawers, and so it was with some difficulty that she followed a portion of her nightly ritual. Her old routine took her anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, depending on what her schedule looked like for the next day. She was highly paid and took her responsibilities seriously. Her looks were her bread and butter, and she was brutal in keeping to her regime. Tonight, she coped as well as she could with what she found acceptable and then crawled onto the misshapen mattress and let the copious tears flood.

  “I don’t know why you’re crying, for heaven’s sake. It’s my life you’ve taken over, my body you hate, my things you’re laughing at and my bloody bed you’re sleeping in.”

  “What? Hello?” Now I’m talking to myself, or thinking to myself, or—whatever. More tears flowed.

  “You’re thinking, well, talking to me. It’s Lucy.”

  “How can I talk to you when I’m you? Or, no, you’re me. Aw, shit! When we’re the same.”

  “I wish! You’re beautiful, and I’m plain and fat. Stop crying! My eyes swell terribly when I cry, and they can stay that way for hours.”

  “Hell’s bells, now I can’t even cry without getting hassled. Go away.”

  “No, I won’t. It’s taken me this long to come through. All the time you were talking to that handsome John Norman, I was so tongue-tied I was sick to my stomach.”

  “I noticed. We barfed all over his hands and feet.”

  “Sorry. When my nerves are upset I have the tendency to get sick.”

  “And faint.”

  “It’s a family curse.”

  “So’s overeating.”

  “Only when I’m nervous. I get nervous a lot.”

  “Figures. Your body weighs a ton, and I’d lay money on it that your feet swell up from the blasted steel girdle you had on. Your legs look hideous. It’s no wonder you wear those goofy long, full-skirted dresses.”

  Tears gushed out, followed by hiccups.

  “Stop it. You even cry badly.”

  “Well, then, stop being so mean to me. You’re hurting my feelings.”

  “Look, what happened at the vicarage? Why am I together with you in your body? What did you do?”

  “I don’t know. I was on my way home from church, and I’d stopped to sit on my favourite bench in front of the vicarage when I saw John Norman coming. I got scared and hid behind the trellis with the roses, the one directly behind the bench. I remember I pricked my finger on a rose thorn and felt giddy, so I sat back down, and then there you were. Taking over, I might add.”

  “If I had my way, you’d have you back all to yourself, and I’d be me again, so don’t blame me. I was just sitting there on the same bench, but for me the date was 2006.”

  “I saw you for a few seconds during the transformation. You looked like a movie star, with beautiful reddish hair, and you were tall and skinny.”

  “My hair is chestnut, not reddish, and I’m slender, not skinny. I have to be thin. I’m a model.”

  “Ohhh, you lucky ducky. I wish I was—thin, that is. But maybe it’s better I’m not, or we both might not fit.”

  “Don’t be so dumb. I’m not all here. Just my mind, or my brain and my soul, I guess. Aw, hell, I don’t know what all travelled over with me.”

  “Well, your mind has a big, mean mouth. You hurt my feelings, laughing and sneering at me earlier.”

  “I’ll be doing more than that, girlfriend. Get used to the idea of a few changes. I’m giving you fair warning—we’ll be following my routine from now on, until I’m outta here.”

  “Crikey! That’s not fair.”

  “Tough. Seems I’m stronger than you, so get used to it. Now shush and go to sleep. We need our beauty rest or we’ll look like hell in the morning.”

  “You won’t be gone when I wake up, will you?”

  “I guess not.”

  A feeling of well-being settled over the pair and sleep followed.

  Chapter Four

  “This better be good,” croaked Jake. His voice reflected the vicious flu that had attacked his body just a few days before.

  “It’s Marnie here, Jake. There’s something dreadfully wrong with Jenna.” Sobs were apparent in her voice.

  “What is it? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Jake, she’s slipped into a coma. The doctors are stumped. They can’t find any reasons for her being unconscious.”

  “What do you mean, she’s unconscious? Was she in an accident? Is she sick?” His voice roared through the transatlantic wires so clearly one would think he was in the n
ext room.

  Bringing the phone back to her ear, Marnie wailed, panic resonating in her voice, “I don’t know what happened. One minute she was sitting on the bench at the front of our rental place, the old vicarage, and by the time I’d joined her, she was slumped over and gone...”

  “Gone?” He cut her off. His bossy, managing forcefulness steadied her as nothing else could have. She sniffed, gulped and cleared her voice.

  “Marnie, for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t know, Jake. I tried to wake her up, and I couldn’t. They’ve taken her to the nearest hospital and have started to run the whole gamut of tests. The doctors mentioned possibilities of infection, or diabetes, stroke—even a brain tumour. I’ve answered so many questions I don’t know if I’m coming or going. It’s all happening so fast.”

  “When did this phenomenon take place?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t call me till now?”

  “I knew you were sick, Jake, and I thought she’d snap out of it. I’m scared, Jake. There’s no response to stimuli at all. She’s comatose.”

  He heard her snivelling again, and it frightened the hell out of him. Marnie was not a sniveller. She was the most calm, down-to-earth person he had ever encountered. She had to be, to put up with the nutcase she worked for. But then, he put up with the same nutcase and wouldn’t have it any other way. He lived for the time he spent with Jenna, even if she did drive him batty with all her demands. “I’ll be on the next plane. I’ll call you with my arrival time. And Marnie, don’t worry so. We’ll take care of our girl.”

  “Don’t we always?” Marnie breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re coming—I never doubted it.”

  The next day a dishevelled, tired and cranky Jake stepped out of his rental car. Marnie hugged him in relief and commiserated with him on his tedious journey. She had continued the lease on the vicarage for the next few weeks as a place for them both to stay to be close to Jenna. She helped him in with his bag and plugged in the kettle. Most people on their first sight of the picturesque place stopped in awe to soak in the scene. He barged straight in without slowing down at all.

  “Any change?”

  “Nothing new since your last call, two hours ago, and the one an hour before that, and...”

  He interrupted rudely. “Shut up! I’m worried. I want to see her.”

  “You’ve had a long trip. Have some coffee first.”

  “No! Now.”

  “You’re dead on your feet, and she’s not going anywhere. Maybe you should grab a nap first?” His glare could freeze rocks. She gave up. “Fine. I’ll drive.” She unplugged the kettle.

  In the car Jake rapped questions at her, the same ones she’d answered already. “I don’t know the answers. Ask the doctors when we get there. They can tell you much more than I can. All I know is, she seems peaceful enough. I’ve sat with her since it happened, and she hasn’t moved at all. The nurses have taken care of her like a baby. They’re very good with her.” She rattled on.

  He barely kept himself under control, he was that anxious to see Jenna. As if the residents of the borough sensed their need to get to the hospital without delay, traffic was slight and they arrived in no time at all.

  The doctors were notified upon their arrival. Jake spent the time waiting for them by devouring the sleeping princess with his hungry gaze. He even kissed her lips, something he would never dream of doing if she were awake. He sat by her side, her small hand cozy in his while he meditated. Marnie, stunned by his affectionate demeanour, left the room to give him privacy. Finally the medical team arrived and brought him up to date with their test results and treatment choices, all of which added up to very little.

  Earlier, as he waited to be called for his transatlantic flight, he’d hooked up his laptop in the first-class lounge and researched all the information available on implausible comas. He’d learned very little, other than that it was a state of prolonged unconsciousness in which the brain functions at its lowest level of alertness.

  Up to now all the tests they’d taken had proved inconclusive. They didn’t seem to know why Jenna was in this state. The only definite knowledge was that it would be necessary to maintain her respiration and circulation.

  He dropped her hand and cupped his cheeks in his shaking palms, masking the wetness tracking his face. His slumped shoulders said it all. His heartbreak was obvious.

  Chapter Five

  Early next morning Jenna was up and forcing her new body into old practises.

  “Ow! Stop that.”

  “You are so out of shape, I can’t believe it.”

  “Enough sit-ups! My heart is pounding so hard it’ll definitely stroke, my back aches—undoubtedly traction will be my only option—and my legs can’t handle so much running. I’ll surely get attacked with varicose veins.”

  “You’re nuts. Stop griping. And by the way—we’re walking fast, not running, and it’s good for you. Exercise keeps the blood flowing, builds muscle and inflates energy, and that alone prevents problems. Your skin will benefit, not to mention your heart and lungs. Right now you’re breathing like a stuffed...”

  “Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare.”

  “Okay! Don’t spaz!”

  “I’m hungry. Let’s eat now.”

  “Right! One egg, a slice of twelve-grain bread and a small apple.” This was typical of Jenna’s usual diet.

  “Never heard of twelve-grain bread. One egg isn’t enough. I usually have three, with bacon rashers, steamed tomatoes, toast and jam—oh, yes, and a bowl of oatmeal. And of course two cups of tea.”

  Sarcasm dripping, Jenna said, “no wonder our arse is as big as an elephant’s. News flash! Lifestyle changes, missy, starting right now. We eat healthy as of this moment.” And arguing all the while with her physical landlady about calories, metabolic rates, nutrition and energy, she strenuously suppressed Lucy’s habit of wolfing down every morsel on her plate.

  After breakfast, Jenna convinced Lucy, under duress, to change her clothes numerous times, until Jenna was as satisfied as possible with her appearance. The baggy dresses were uncomplimentary to her body shape. The white sheer ruffled blouse, Lucy’s favourite wardrobe item, looked like hell with the yellowed camisole. Her skirts were too long, shoes the wrong colour, everything was ugly—nothing pleased the fashion-conscious Jenna. Lucy was past caring. Then, hidden in the back of Lucy’s closet, tailored slacks were unearthed, and Jenna glommed onto them.

  “Now we’re cooking. These are what I’m talking about. Now for a top to go with them. Do you have anything a bit longer and not too fitted?” Jenna scrambled through the piles of clothing she’d flung all over the room, until her eyes caught sight of a lovely blue cashmere sweater she’d passed over earlier. Preening in front of the mirror, a pastime never enjoyed by Lucy, Jenna gave a last pat to the unruly curls and decided she’d done all she could with what she had.

  “Are you happy, now that I’m exhausted and we still have the tea tray to prepare?”

  “Happy? No! But it’s the best I can do.”

  Not surprisingly, they weren’t quite ready when John appeared with the shrink in tow, Dr. Andrews.

  Lucy slipped away as soon as John showed up, and Jenna, feeling startlingly empty and alone without Lucy’s presence, nevertheless took an instant liking to the English version of Dr. Phil. His questions were blunt and inspired her to be completely open, giving him a more frank window into the shallowness of her life than she realized.

  Dr. Andrews was a bit crusty, one of those men who seem to be born old. His conservative clothes and mannerisms were those of a person well read and well educated. There was an old-world gallantry about him that Jenna brought to the fore.

  To Dr. Andrews, Jenna was baffling, a complex creature he studied and questioned. Was she suffering a true out-of-body experience, or was her mind somehow broken? And what of Lucy? From all accounts, Lucy McGillicuddy had lived an exemplary life up till now. She was quiet
and well thought of by her neighbours and the people at work, nothing at all like the person who was now in control of her body.

  They met day after day and he listened to Jenna babble on about how successful she was and the money she drew.

  She went on about her modeling career and the number of gigs she’d ruthlessly stolen from “lesser-known wannabes,” as she termed them. His normally direct eye contact glazed over when she tried to introduce him to Lucy, who remained stubbornly silent.

  At first he wanted to believe her about two beings in one body, but it was finally becoming clear to him what an incredible actress she must be. If it weren’t for all the facts she could produce about the future, he’d have no doubts at all. Somehow she always managed to intrigue him, and so he let the days float past.

  “I’ll meet Lucy at another time,” he’d say each day, consolingly. Always, at the mention of Lucy, his respectful attitude diminished and he would treat her like a child.

  At her bidding, John sat in on the consults, silent and brooding, obviously intrigued and amused by the verbal exchange between two sharp personalities. He took notes of his own while Dr. Andrews set up his cumbersome reel-to-reel tape recorder, a machine Jenna laughed at.

  When questioned, she explained to the two men that in her world she could hold a tape recorder in the palm of her hand. She rambled on about her favourite technological toy, called a cell phone.

  “Phones that are calculators, contain address books, work as computers and can take photographs and moving pictures?” Dr. Andrews’ eyebrows could hardly have risen any higher.

  “Videos.”

  “Yes, videos. And it can be used as a computer to send messages to anyone, anywhere in the world?”

  “Yes. It’s the handiest little gadget, and I miss mine like crazy.”