Dead Girl Walking (8 page)

I stared at her through eyes that weren’t my own, shuddering at the threat of a locked room in a mental hospital. I’d seen movies about mental wards with electric shocks and straitjackets, where even the sanest person turned into a drooling zombie. If I told the truth, I was crazy. But if I lied and pretended to be someone I wasn’t, I was sane.

Swallowing hard, I met Leah’s mother’s gaze.

Then I nodded.

I realized later, when I woke up in a beautiful and unfamiliar room, that despite my agreement to cooperate, the “vitamins” Mrs. Montgomery instructed the nurse to give me before leaving the hospital were in fact sleeping pills. I vaguely remembered half-crawling into the wheelchair—embarrassed because the nightgown was open in the back and I was mooning the male nurse—then I was out.

The silky, butter-yellow sheets were a definite improvement over the starchy white hospital sheets. And the four-poster bed with its frilly lace canopy was right out of the “Cool Stuff I Can’t Afford” magazines I flipped through when no one else was around. Oooh, so very luxurious. Unfortunately I couldn’t enjoy myself. I just wanted out.

For a desperate moment, I prayed that this was all an outrageous prank. I was the unknowing victim on an extreme reality show like
Punk’d
. Any moment, Alyce and Dustin would pop out and shout, “Gotcha!”

Only when I glanced down at myself, and saw wavy blonde hair over an elegant, ivory satin nightgown, reality slapped me hard. No matter how many times I wanted to believe this wasn’t happening, it was.

Emotionally I was a wreck, but physically I felt better. Sleep had cleared the cobwebs from my brain and I could move my arms with only minor pain. I tested my legs, wiggling one and then the other. Not bad, just a little stiff. I drew back the gauzy bed curtains, pushed away a satin comforter, and slowly lowered my legs to the plush carpet.

This exertion was more tiring than I’d expected. I paused to catch my breath. Then I lifted my head and looked—really looked—around the spacious room. Despite the utter mess of my life, I couldn’t help but be awed.

Way gorgeous room! Ornate white-gold vanity dresser, entertainment center with everything electronic imaginable, oil paintings by famous artists I’m sure Alyce would know, an L-shaped dark gold couch, and lace-draped picture windows. I had a wild urge to fling open the closet, check out the drawers, and try on all Leah’s clothes. You can bet she’d have an amazing wardrobe: designer everythings from oh-so-fab stores where under normal circumstances I couldn’t even afford to window shop. But these were far from normal circumstances. I was still reeling from the weirdness of being Leah.

A full-length mirror seemed to beckon from across the room.

Like a sleepwalker, I moved toward the mirror.

And I studied Leah.

She looked unusually pale, and younger than I remembered from school. Even without makeup she was stunning: slim, with wavy white-blonde hair and exotic long-lashed blue eyes. Her creamy skin was flawless, free of the pimples that plagued me whenever I was on my period. Her slender arms tapered down to elegant French-tipped nails, and underneath the silky nightgown, tiny, cherry-red polished toenails poked out.

Leah’s body was firm like she worked out, but soft like she never really worked. No scrubbing bathrooms or scouring greasy pans for these baby-soft hands. Leah probably had a housekeeper to clean her messes, a cook to fix her meals, and a personal fitness guru to firm her perky assets.

Thinking of assets … okay, I’ll admit it, I was curious.

Before I could decide if there was something voyeuristic about what I was going to do, I slipped off the fancy nightgown and stood naked before the mirror.

Not bad, Leah, I thought.

The breasts were amazingly perfect, defying gravity and deserving of applause. But were they real or surgically enhanced?

Upon closer inspection, I found faint shadows of twin scars. And while they looked natural, when I touched them they felt hard and unyielding, like if I did jumping jacks, they wouldn’t bounce with me.

Leah looked amazing with or without clothes; tight butt, zero cellulite on firm thighs, and long, athletic legs. A tiny diamond glittered from her pierced belly button, and further down I saw proof that Leah was a natural blonde. The small puff of blonde hair curled in a unique shape. I knew some girls shaved down there, but shaving it into a heart? Now that was just … weird.

Whoa, Leah, what other secrets have you been hiding?

As I stood naked, staring into the mirror, the enormous reality of my changed life crashed into me. I was looking at myself … except I wasn’t myself … not anymore.

Maybe never again.

Ohmygod! Leah freaking Montgomery! That was her, now me, in the reflection: breathing, feeling, living in this body.

And all because I had a crummy sense of direction.

Don’t panic
, I told myself just as I was doing that very thing. Hyperventilating would solve nothing. I had to solve this problem—my entire future depended on it. In math, every problem has an answer; X always equals something. And my self-help books stated that there was a solution to every problem. But I didn’t know of any books that offered advice for this situation.

Thinking logically … I’d gotten into this body, so there had to be a way out. But even if I found it, how could I make sure Leah and I returned to our own bodies? What if I ended up in a worse body—like someone in prison or really old with wrinkles? Leah and I needed to swap back with each other. Only I didn’t know where she was, or even if she was alive. What if she was gone forever?

The pale ghost in the mirror reflected terror.

I sucked in deep breaths and released them slowly, struggling not to lose whatever remained of me. I wasn’t sure I could hold it together any longer, and was raveling at the edges of despair—when I noticed something in the mirror that gave me new hope.

On the dresser behind me.

A phone.

No uppity switchboard witch stopped me from making this call.

As I waited for a ring, excited/scared/hopeful thoughts scattered through my head. How would my parents react when they heard my voice? What did they think happened to me? Did the triplets miss me? Who was feeding our cat while I was gone?

It was almost noon. Dad would be at his job, but Mom should be home preparing triple lunches (unless she was running errands or meeting with her Moms & Multiples playgroup.)

If Mom answered, she’d be so relieved to know I was okay that she’d start crying, and she wasn’t the crying type at all. My father was the emotional one, although he always hid it by saying he had allergies. If he answered, he’d want to rush right over and take me home. Mom knew how reckless Dad got behind the wheel when he was in a hurry, so she wouldn’t let him drive alone. But then who would watch the triplets? Probably Dilly McCurry, who lived next door and often babysat when I wasn’t around.

All these things whirled through my head while I waited for the first ring.

Pick up!
I thought, amazed that calling home could be so terrifying. I mean, I was just calling Mom and Dad. So why was my heart racing? My family loved me unconditionally, and they’d support me no matter what.

Another ring. My palms started to sweat.

Had one of the triplets tossed the phone in the toilet again?

Another ring. Maybe this phone wasn’t working right. Or I’d dialed wrong. Lately I had the worst luck with phones. I should hang up and try again—

“Hello?” a woman answered abruptly, in a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Um … I must have dialed wrong,” I said, ready to hang up and try again.

“Whom were you trying to reach?”

“My par … uh … the Bordens. Sorry to bother—”

“This is the Borden residence.”

“Is it?” I sagged against the dresser with relief. “Can you put Mom on?”

“Who? I don’t think I heard you right.” She sounded tired, as if I’d woken her from a nap.

“My mother,” I said impatiently.

“You have the incorrect number.”

Ah ha! Now I knew that voice. The formal way she said “incorrect” rather than “wrong” triggered a pleasant memory of being little and playing wild animals with my cousin Zeke at a family wedding. Less pleasant was the memory of the six-hundred-dollar wedding cake we’d knocked off a table. My aunt never did forgive me, and neither did her oldest daughter—the bride.

“Aunt Suzanne!” I cried, wondering what she was doing at my house, but not really caring because that wasn’t important. Connecting with someone from my family made me giddy with relief. “Could you get Mom or Dad for me? I really, really need them.”

“Who is this?” she demanded sharply.

“You know … Amber.”

“Amber who?”

“Borden, of course. Your niece. Come on, Aunt Suz, stop kidding around.”

“I never kid around.” There was a pause, then my aunt spoke with brittle coolness. “I don’t know what sick game you’re indulging in, but if you ever have the audacity to call again, I’ll contact the police.”

“But Aunt Suz … I mean … I’m sorry.” Instantly I realized my mistake. No wonder she didn’t recognize my voice. Not only did I look like someone else, but I sounded different, too. “Wait! Don’t hang up! You don’t understand. Let me explain!”

“I have no intention of holding a conversation with someone with no consideration for a grieving family.”

“I didn’t … I mean … grieving?”

“Do you have any idea what the family is going through?”

“No … I don’t. What’s … What’s going on?” I asked, gripping the phone tight and starting to tremble.

“I’m not going to discuss personal issues with a stranger.”

“But I’m not a stranger! I’m your … I mean, I’m a friend … yeah, I’m Amber’s friend Leah.” I thought fast. “We’re so close, we call each other’s parents Mom and Dad.”

“Then you should know this is not a good time to call.”

“Where’s Mo … Mrs. Borden? I really need to talk with her … uh … about Amber.”

“My brother and his wife aren’t available. They’re at … at the hosp—” Her voice cracked and broke into sobs, which really shocked me because I hadn’t seen Aunt Suzanne cry since the cake incident, and that was from anger. This felt sad.

“What hospital?” I asked in a small, scared voice.

“Community Central. They’re with Amber … saying good-bye.”

“Good-bye? You mean … Ohmygod!” I fell to my knees, squeezing the phone.

“Didn’t you know? About the accident?” she asked in the kindest tone I’d ever heard from my stern aunt.

“The mail truck?”

“So you do know. It was so utterly senseless and tragic.”

“But I’m … Amber’s going to be all right? Isn’t she?”

There was no answer.