Page 23 of After Life
“It’s a book about the folkways of the island’s original colonists. It was sitting on the desk in the library room,” he said, flipping another page. “It’s fascinating! A combination of farm records, folklore, and looks like some religious stuff.”
“Sounds right up your alley,” I yawned. Something about the sea air and the lack of any metaphorical fires to put out made me exceedingly sleepy. I could barely keep my eyes open despite the fact I’d gotten plenty of sleep the night before. The mug of tea Sandra made for me cooled on the spindle-legged end table beside me as I tried to thumb through my private social media (which, to be fair, was just to follow Ezra’s accounts and now Lisa and Jesse). My eyes were heavy and gritty, similar to how I felt when I had a cold. “Are you feeling alright?”
I glanced up to find Julian giving me a concerned look, brows drawn down and lips twisted in a thoughtful frown.
“Fine,” I said. “Just very tired all of a sudden.” The sound of thunder rolling in over the sea was a deep, monstrous sort of growl. “Probably just the change in weather,” I offered, seizing a possible reason. Swear to whichever god is listening, if I’m sick on this getaway, I’ll be very blasphemous once I find out which one of you is on shift today.
Julian was talking, but his words were warm tar, slow and thick as they drifted between us. My eyes wouldn’t stay open, even when his tone sharpened and the sound of him struggling to his feet from the overstuffed chair broke through the warm cocoon of sleep tugging at me. I felt floaty, warm and safe. A vague thought—is this what babies feel like in utero—crossed my mind before it was replaced with just the simple sensations of warmth and nothingness. Slowly, my body grew heavy again but in a way that wasn’t usual for me. My gravity was off, I thought wildly. All traces of comfortable warmth evaporated as sensation rushed at me in one all-consuming wave, making me gasp and thrash against the blanket over me until finally, finally, I could convince my eyes to open.
This isn’t my room.
My body felt different. Wrong. No, I realized—just wrong for me.
And me wasn’t who I was.
Instead of the over-warm study where the thunder rattled the windows and the promise of rain seeped in on muggy little currents of air through the cracks in the molding, I was in a brightly lit bedroom under the cold blast of a window air conditioning unit. The room smelled of wet wool with a hint of mildew laced with gardenia or something else very floral and lush. I was cold, my limbs bare and sweat-dappled.
Where’s my waistcoat? My shirt? My legs were covered, which made me feel less exposed, but those were definitely not my trousers.
“Where the hell did I get jeans?” I muttered. My voice was light but raspy, startling me.
“Whose accent is this?”
American—or maybe Canadian? It was hard for me to tell. Definitely not my own dulcet tones, that was for certain. I pushed myself into a sitting position and winced as everything moved strangely. My body was too long, thin in ways I usually wasn’t.
And I knew, knew in my bones (well, whoever’s bones these were), that I was not in my own body.
And what the fuck was I supposed to do about that?
Gingerly, my heart racing so badly I felt nauseated, I got to my feet and looked down. Jeans, white tank top, thick gray socks... I blinked and everything snapped together. Rushing to the dresser to peer in the mirror set over it, a panicked laugh bubbled from my chest.
“Sandra. What the actual fuck. How...”
Touching my (her) face, hair, hands, it all felt so real. I’ve been having weird dreams lately. This has to be one of them.
Thunder rolled long and heavy, the lights flickering in the bedroom.
Is this her cottage? Or at least what I’m assuming her cottage looks like? I did a slow turn, taking everything in. If this was a dream, it was sharp and vivid. Dust limned the blinds over the tiny window, a generic lamp sat on a pressboard nightstand beside a plain, neatly made bed save for where my (her) body had wrinkled the sheets on one edge.
Dog toys sat half-chewed and grubby in a basket by the closed door.
A mug of tea steamed gently beside the lamp, a small one-cup teapot over a candle-warmed stand simmering nearby. I took a few cautious steps toward it, bending to sniff. It smelled grassy, dirty, medicinal.
That was the smell, I realized, or at least part of it. Whatever it was, was strong.
Do I usually smell in my dreams? I thought that was impossible. Julian would know.
Thunder rumbled again, louder and lower this time. The power shuddered. “Don’t you even think about it,” I muttered. Patting myself (herself) down, I checked for a phone and found none. Maybe somewhere in the house, I thought.
But if this is a dream, wake up. There. Just wake up. End it.
It wasn’t often I was stricken by how ridiculous my profession—no, my life—could be but I was definitely experiencing a moment of clarity regarding the level of banana-pants weirdness at that moment.
The power flickered again, then blinked out entirely. A flash of lightening illuminated the room for just a second, making everything washed out blue and white. Lenny started howling outside the bedroom door.
“Shit, Goddamnit, fuck!”
Sandra’s voice—definitely not mine—was shrill with my nerves. Fine, I wasn’t waking up, I’d try to walk to the house. Maybe a change of scenery would snap me out of this.
