Tim Meyer - The Switch House

The girl rolled her eyes. “I mean, it’s already been taken care of. You owe nothing.”

“How… who?”

Kandi shrugged, her lips parting into an amiable smile. “I don’t know. Doesn’t say. But it’s in our system. Maybe Dr. Wilson?”

“Why would she?”

Kandi sighed and lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know, Mrs. Shepard. There are some good people out there in the world. What can I tell you? Never look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.”

“Well,” she said, hesitant to take the bag from her. “Thanks.”

“I watched the show, by the way.”

“Oh?” Angela forced herself to smile. No one had recognized her in public yet and that first sip of celebrity tasted strange. “Thank you.”

“Yeah…” she said, her mouth pulling taut, the skin around her eyes forming deep wrinkles. “I’m so sorry for your loss and everything you and your husband went through. My heart bleeds for you both.”

Angela tried to keep the smile intact, but she felt it slip. “That’s… that’s very kind of you to say.”

Kandi nodded, changing her demeanor back to its original salesperson facade. “He’s still alive, you know,” she bubbled.

Angela went rigid as her blood froze in her veins. Her skin hardened with gooseflesh and her heart rattled around her chest. She felt her eyes expand, nearly pop out of their sockets. Words died in the desert her mouth had become. She managed to squeak out, “What did you say?”, but she hardly sounded like herself.

A smile broke across Kandi’s face. “In here,” she said, pointing to the center of her chest. “In your hearts.”

The girl’s choice of words wasn’t easy to shake. Angela forced herself to smile back, but she didn’t need a mirror to tell she was grimacing with uneasiness. She closed her eyes and nodded as if to say, okay-you-scared-me-shitless-but-now-I-understand. “I see…”

“I’m sorry,” Kandi said, losing the smile. “I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… my husband and I don’t discuss it much. It’s strange hearing other people talk about it.”

“Yeah, I sorta gathered that from the show.”

Something tugged at Angela’s throat. “Yes. Well…”

“Have a great day, Mrs. Shepard. I look forward to experiencing more of your journey.”

She waved the girl goodbye, but before she turned and headed for the exit, she noticed Kandi kneading the crucifix dangling from her neck and whispering quietly.

She swore the girl was praying.

Or reciting some ancient verse.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t English.

The second she stepped outside, Angela opened the small bottle and tapped a pill into her palm. She popped it in her mouth, cocked her head back, and swallowed it dry. She pressed a hand to her head to feel if she was warm, if maybe she was coming down with a fever. She was achy and exhausted, but her forehead felt cool, normal. She took a deep breath and wondered if she was going plain crazy.

Maybe that’s it. I’m past the breaking point my mother always warned us about. Or maybe I’m just a fucking whacko.

Angela crossed the parking lot and headed for her car. Her eyes were immediately drawn across the lot, focusing on a familiar vehicle.

[The woman pulls her Oldsmobile into the Red River Mall parking lot, gets out, and heads to the food court where she buys a two-scoop ice cream sundae.]

The woman. She was slumped in the driver’s seat, her eyes scanning the downtown landscape. Watching. Waiting. Spying.

Oh God.

As their eyes met and locked onto each other, Angela felt the bottom of her stomach plummet. Her bladder filled and she did everything within her power to keep from wetting herself. She dropped her small shopping bag on the pavement and began walking toward the woman’s vehicle, entranced by her sudden presence. Come to me, she almost heard the woman whisper in her ear. In the distance, the Oldsmobile cranked to life. Angela quickened her pace. Come to me. The smell of gasoline was heavy in the air. She almost choked on it.

Come to me.

Angela broke out into a run, speeding—

Come to me.

HONK! HONK!

A blue sedan knocked into her, launching her a few inches off the ground. Angela immediately sprang to her feet, looking back at the young driver who had tapped her.

“What’s the hell’s wrong with you, lady?” the kid asked, irritated as if he were the one sprawled on the concrete.

Angela put her palms up to signify she was okay. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just…” She looked over to where Rosalyn Jeffries had been parked.

The old woman was gone.

“Shit,” Angela said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Are you okay, lady?” the kid asked with the same amount of frustration. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“No, I’m fine.” She scanned the streets for evidence of the Oldsmobile, but the woman had disappeared behind a steady flow of mid-morning traffic.

“Well, watch where you’re going next time,” the kid said as he cruised by her.

“Thanks for the advice,” she replied, under her breath, while heading back for the dropped prescription.

The entire way home she couldn’t shake that I’m-being-followed feeling.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. Terry had prepared another one of his stellar home-cooked meals, and Angela spent most of the time peering down at her food, nudging the lemon-garnished chicken and buttered broccoli around her plate.

“Not hungry?” Terry asked.

Angela set down her fork. “Not really.”

“What have you eaten today?”

She rubbed her forehead, trying to remember. “I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich earlier.”

“That’s it?”

Shutting her eyes, she breathed deeply through her nose. “Haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

“Since the…”

She nodded.

“Maybe you should see someone.”

She gulped. Does he already know? How could he? She had been so careful. The bills were sent electronically to an e-mail address she had secretly created behind her husband’s back. She felt bad doing so, but it was necessary. Abbie had promised to keep their sessions private—patient confidentiality and all that—and Angela knew that was a promise she wouldn’t break, despite her repeated recommendations for couple’s therapy.

“I already have,” she said, the words slipping out before she could fully think them through.

“Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yes. For a while now. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought you’d be angry.”

He set down his fork, resting the utensil on the edge of his plate. “Why would I be angry?”

She averted her eyes from her trembling fingers and stared at him. “I don’t know. Thought maybe you’d see it as a sign of weakness. Like I couldn’t cope with what’s happening. That you’d think I’m crazy and not love me anymore.”

“Honey…” He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He meandered around the table and hugged his wife. “Baby, I would never think that of you.”

She sobbed into his chest, soaking his shirt with tears. “You were so distant after those first few months.”

“I know, babe. I know. It was my fault. I was… I didn’t know how to cope with it, either.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and let his lips linger. “Tell me about this psychiatrist.”

Pulling away from him, she collected herself. She dabbed idling tears with a napkin. “Her name is Abigail Wilson. She’s very nice. Today she gave me a prescription to help with the… the… hallucinations.”