Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“How is he? Where is he? Is he with family? No one will talk to me about it.”

Barry folded his hands again, set them back down on the table. He sighed deeply, like a parent ready to dole out a severe punishment. “I know this is hard to hear, though, I suspect it’s not the first time you’ve been told, buuuuuut… there was no other William.”

Scoffing, she shook her head. “No, that’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Barry said. “I hate to say this, but you were never pregnant.”

“No, I was. I was pregnant. I gave birth to another William. I remember it very clearly. The delivery went very well. No problems. Unlike the first time.”

“It’s all part of your psychosis, I’m afraid. You never had a second child. That day when you killed your husband and Rosalyn Jeffries, the authorities found pregnancy tests all over the bathroom. Thirty-seven I think the number was. All of them used. All of them showing negative results.”

“Terry saw it. He made me take it. He showed me the results. They were positive.”

“You’re wrong, Angela.”

“No, we were supposed to switch. The old William for the new. That was what Terry said; it was his idea. Ester Moore got to him. He killed Rosalyn Jeffries, Barry. Terry killed her because she was trying to help me—”

“Angela, your husband wasn’t at Rosalyn’s house that day. Only you were. He was at work. There were witnesses. Your DNA was all over the house. The mug of tea she gave you was all the evidence they needed.”

“No, he admitted it, Barry. He told me he did it.”

“You made it up, Angie. You made it all up in your head. You snapped after you saw the first episode of Switch! The guilt of what you did with your son was too much. You snapped, killed Rosalyn Jeffries, killed your husband, and here we are. I suspect if you weren’t chained to the floor, you’d probably kill me too.”

“No…”

“I’m sorry. It’s true. Every word of it.”

Catatonically, she stared at the man across from her. Her lips wriggled, unable to help produce any sounds.

“I know this is tough. I know your mental state of mind is fragile. So, let’s get to it. I want you to tell your story. To America. I’ve gotten permission from both state and federal officials to let us film portions of the trial. We also secured permission from the board of doctors at this facility, and they are giving us full access to you. Twenty-four-seven surveillance. All we need, Angie, is you. You can set the truth straight. I know you have a story to tell. About why you did what you did. To William. To your husband. About what happened in your house after the show. I know you have a story burning you up so badly you can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t eat. I know you need to purge. I know you need it, Angela, so…” He extends the pen in her direction. “…sign this. Please. We can help you with your trial, help you plead insanity. The studio has the best lawyers on the planet. Sign with us. We can help you get through this nightmare.”

She accepted the pen. “They’ll really listen to what I have to say?”

Dollar signs flashing before his eyes, he nodded. “Every word, sweetheart.”

“Even if it sounds crazy?”

“Especially if it sounds crazy.”

As she put the ink to paper, her face developed a spreading smile.

After she signed her life away, she glanced up at the ceiling. There was a small hole cut in the plasterboard, no bigger than a golf ball. She swore she saw an eyeball there, human flesh around the blinking orb.

She closed her own eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again, just like her team of doctors instructed.

The hole remained, but the eye was gone.

“Ma-me,” the boy said, removing his eye from the hole in the bathroom wall.

“Honey?” a voice called from somewhere close. “Honey, where are you?”

“Ma-me.” The boy looked at the hole with little emotion. There was a moment of hesitation where he thought he might return his eye to the hole to see what it would show this time around. “Ma-me.”

“Honey?” The voice was behind him now. Footsteps knocked on the wooden floor of the hallway.

The boy turned.

A figure stood in the doorway, shoulder resting against the door jamb. “There you are, mister.”

The boy looked back at the hole.

“What is that?” his mother asked. “Looks like this house needs a few repairs, huh?”

Mother had a peek inside the wall. She smiled. “Well, this house is just full of surprises. Isn’t it?” She winked.

“Ma-me.”

“Yes, mommy will have this patched up in no time.”

More footsteps, the trampling kind, sounded up the stairs and down the hall. An out-of-breath woman appeared in the doorway, holding her chest and swallowing air. “Sweet Lord!” she said. “I’m so glad you found him.”

Mommy patted her son on the head, kissed his cheek. “Yes. He’s quite the wanderer. You never know where he’ll end up next.”

The woman in the doorway smiled. As she regulated her breathing, she rifled through her purse, removing a whole stack of stapled paperwork.

“Well, we must hurry. We have three more houses to hit before noon. I think the next—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Ma’am?”

“We’re going to put in an offer on this one.”

The real estate woman shot her an odd glance, and then surveyed the walls, their filthy condition. “Are you sure?” she asked, with a forced, fading smile.

“I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

With her smile completely gone, the woman set her house-hunting itinerary down on the sink. “Mrs. Wilson,” she said, averting her eyes and pulling at her lower lip with her teeth.

“Please,” Mommy said, grinning, “call me, Abbie.”

“Abbie,” the woman said, manufacturing a smirk. “This house… it has a little bit of a history, as I’m sure you know.”

Grinning, Abbie nodded. “I know it well.”

“Then, I must insist—why are you so keen on purchasing this home?” She winced as if the answer might inflict pain. “I can’t even get people to drop by during an open house. I’ve tried everything. Cupcakes. Gift card giveaways. I even offered coupons for free massages. Nothing works. And then here you come, calling me out of nowhere, asking to see 44 Trenton Road in Red River, and—I’m just a little baffled, that’s all, Miss Wilson—I mean, Abbie.”

Abbie’s grin widened. “I understand.” She patted her son’s head. “I guess this place just feels like home to us.”

The woman glanced over at her son’s expressionless face, then back to Abbie. “Okay,” she said, finding a smile that passed as genuine. “Okay then, let’s do this!”

Abbie smiled, laughed a little.

The real estate woman smiled, laughed a lot.

Abbie looked down at her son. “We finally found our home, William. We’re finally here.”

William looked up at his mother, Abbie Wilson, who went by many names, the woman who once called herself Ester Moore. Then, he returned his lazy gaze to the hole in the wall. “Ma-me,” he said. “Ma-me.”

“That’s right,” Abbie said, hugging the child. “You and Ma-me are finally home.” She whispered into his ear, “The perfect place for all your brothers and sisters.”

The real estate woman didn’t seem to hear this last part and waved them out of the bathroom, starting to ramble on about paperwork and how they should head back to the office and get started on their offer right away.

Abbie grabbed William’s hand and led him out. Before they crossed the threshold and entered the hallway, William looked back over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto the hole on the far wall.