Linda Singleton - Dead Girl Walking

She hugged tighter and my throat burned like I’d swallowed flaming coals.

“That’s it, honey. Keep those pretty blue eyes open.”

Not blue eyes. Brown. I opened my eyes wide.

“You can’t imagine the horror I’ve gone through since your accident,” the woman prattled on. “Your father blames me, and perhaps he’s right, so from now on things will be different. I vowed that if you got well, I would change, join one of those twelve-step programs, and I sincerely mean it this time. Oh, Leah, my dearest daughter.”

Lack of breath battled with the desperation to explain that I wasn’t her dearest anything. I had to make her understand that she must be in the wrong room, or needed glasses. But my body wasn’t cooperating. When I spit out “Not Leah,” my words croaked in garbled demonic language.

“What’s wrong?” Her eyes almost popped out. “Are you having an attack?”

I thrashed in bed, pointing at myself and shaking my head. Unbearable pain made me gag, jerk erratically, and even drool a little.

“Someone help! My daughter is in trouble!” The woman let loose with an ear-piercing scream that would have knocked me flat if I weren’t already lying on my back.

The door burst open with blinding light and a swarm of green-garbed figures. Noisy voices swelled like an attack of hornets. I closed my eyes, sinking into blissful sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the empty room was dark except for ghostly lights from shadowy machinery. Rhythmic beeps echoed my own heartbeat.

Is it my heart, though? I thought with growing panic. Am I even me?

Of course I’m me , I reasoned. I had thoughts and memories that were all about me. Being anyone else would be insanity. I was a lot of things — scared, confused, hurting — but I wasn’t crazy. The whole looking in a mirror and seeing Leah Montgomery (I mean, Leah of all people!) had to have been a hallucination.

Well I was awake now, so I’d just look in the mirror and prove that I was still me.

Only when I reached for the mirror, I stared down in horror …

At a stranger’s hand. Not mine.

My own fingers were chubby, tanned sausages; these fingers were as thin as French fries, and too soft to have ever washed dishes or changed diapers. Also, Grammy’s lucky bracelet was missing, replaced by a plastic hospital bracelet inscribed “Montgomery, L.”

Abso-freaking-lutely impossible.

My identity shouldn’t be like a tough question on a pop quiz. I knew who I was. Amber. Not Leah. So why did I look so different?

Possible Answers:

a) I’d looked into a trick mirror.

b) I was asleep and having a horrible nightmare.

c) Lavender Woman was part of a twisted conspiracy.

I was leaning toward “c” because LW was definitely not my mother. Theresa Borden was soft-spoken, with a gentle touch and a fresh herbal scent from working in her garden. Mom hated cooking but loved baking pastries, so she often had dough on her hands and flour sprinkled on her dark chestnut hair. She wasn’t complicated. She was just Mom.

Childishly I thought, I want my mommy .

Well, why not? I’d call home and ask Mom or Dad to come get me. I’d explain how I’d been dead for a little while, had this really cool talk with Grammy, and even got to pet Cola, but on the way back something went horribly wrong and I didn’t look like myself anymore. My parents were always solving triple-type problems from Cherry, Melonee, and Olive. Admittedly, my problem was more complex than locating a missing pacifier and dodging projectile spit-up, but my parents would know what to do. They would make everything okay.

I winced at the tube in my arm as I reached for the phone. Not so easy, I realized when the heart monitor sped up. My head didn’t feel so good, either — my brain was like a pinball machine with steel balls ricocheting around.

Still, I persevered, until my hand clenched the phone. My brain might be fuzzy, but fortunately my fingers knew the routine. I punched in my home number and waited for the familiar ring. Instead there was a click-click sound, then a young, uptight-sounding woman droned, “Community Central Hospital. May I help you?”

“Yes!” I croaked. It sounded like “uh.”

“How can I assist you?”

“Call.” This came out like a crow saying “caw.”

“I see that you’re calling from Room 289. I must inform you that this is a restricted line, so if you’re attempting to make an outgoing call, you’ll need proper authorization.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” is what I wanted to say, but it came out like a crow caw again.

“I regret that I cannot be of further assistance. Please contact your floor nurse or your physician.” The phone went dead.

She didn’t sound like she regretted not helping me. But that was the least of my problems.

I wanted to cry, but that would hurt too much. What was wrong with my throat anyway? Had I damaged my lungs in the car crash? I remembered the sound of gears grinding and the squeal of tires, but I had no idea what happened to my body afterwards. Impact with a truck had to be pretty serious, and seriously not pretty. But this body didn’t seem broken or even bruised. Mostly my head hurt. Even thinking about my head hurting hurt.

My thoughts and memories were the only part of me I recognized. Had the accident done so much damage that I’d needed plastic surgery? I imagined a doctor wheeling my body into the emergency room, taking one horrified look at my broken everythings and declaring my only hope was a total body makeover. But why an entire new face? Especially one that belonged to someone else?

When I looked in the mirror again, there was Leah.

To make sure it wasn’t a trick mirror, I angled the glass at the bed and saw a bed. I angled it at the metal tray and saw a metal tray. I angled it back at my face … and Leah was still there, her eyes mirroring my fear.

Not a hallucination.

Not a nightmare.

Not me.

But Leah? I mean, Leah Montgomery! At school I was so awed and intimidated by her that I avoided getting in her way. She wasn’t mean like Moniqua or sarcastic like Kat. Leah was loved and feared; aloof, controlled, royalty. Her power went beyond beauty and wealth. Leah possessed that elusive “X Factor.” That mysterious quality I’d sensed in Trinidad that separated ordinary people from extraordinary stars.

Kids around school bragged about their “Leah Moments.” Like Hollywood celebrity sightings, Leah Moments usually began in mundane ways. “I’d forgotten a book, and while I was getting it from my locker, Leah came over and told me she liked my shoes and asked where I’d bought them.”

“Her pen dropped on the floor, and I picked it up for her and she thanked me!”

Or sometimes it was just a casual brush with Leah fame, like pulling into her parking spot as she was leaving.

I had had a Leah Moment a few months ago. Unfortunately, it had not gone well. Since extreme humiliation was not something to brag about, I’d never told anyone about it … well except Alyce. (I mean, I had to tell my BFF Alyce everything). Here’s what happened.

The office secretary told me about this new student, Margrét from Iceland. So Alyce created an amazing basket, which I couldn’t wait to deliver. Inside the basket were snacks, coupons, school newspapers, spirit banners, and an adorable stuffed puffin (Iceland’s unofficial mascot). Margrét squealed excitedly over the basket and hugged the toy puffin. Then she went into the restroom, and I noticed she’d dropped the puffin. So I picked it up and as the restroom door opened, I tossed it to her. “You forgot your puffin.”

Only, you guessed it — not Margrét.