Cameron groaned, lifting one hand to his head. The pounding headache did nothing to help his mood. At least the pain said he wasn’t dead.
“Shhhhh.”
His mother shushed. “Dormi angelo mio. Let your body heal.”
Crap.
“How bad?” he managed, still not opening his eyes.
“Not
that bad,” she lied, her pitch lifting just slightly.
“Ma!”
“It’s
bad.” His sister chimed in. “Like a pancake the dog didn’t like.”
“Nice
image, Misty. Use it in your next book.”
“Will
do,” she said, cheerfully. “It’s about an accident victim, anyway. Actually,
this works well. Can you describe how you feel right now?”
She
was serious. He didn’t need to open his eyes to tell. His sister was always
serious when it came to stupid questions at the wrong moment.
“It
hurts. My head pounds. My fingers feel like they might be broken, my leg too.”
“They
are,” she assured him, but he could hear a pencil scratching.
“Amore
mio, not now,” their mother pleaded.
“Now’s
the best time,” Misty said with a tiny pout. “If I wait, he’ll forget.”
“I’m
afraid to open my eyes,” he continued, indulging her. Being the subject of her
book research wasn’t a new experience. “I’m nervous about what might be, and
I’m too nervous just to get it over with and ask.”
“One
broken leg, three broken fingers, two broken ribs and a partridge, and a pear
tree.” She continued scratching her notes.
“Thanks.
Face?”
“Pretty
as a peach. Your girl will still kiss you. Not much of a girl, though, no
texts, no calls, and no visits.”
Shoot.
“How many days?”
“Two.”
Two
days. The deal was likely gone then. “Can you give me my phone?”
“No,”
their mother said firmly. “You need to rest. The doctor made us promise.”
“The
doctor’s not here.” He could hear Misty move. “Is she your first thought?”
Cameron
chuckled, regretted it, and cut it off with a grunt of pain. “She’s not my
girl. Just a work associate.”
Once
she handed him the phone, it took him a moment of fumbling and he finally
opened his eyes to stare at the blinding screen.
Laura
answered after one ring. “Peter?”
Hearing
the false name made him cringe. “I had an accident.” He caught his mother’s
darkening expression in contrast to the burning curiosity of his sister. “Did I
miss the window?”
“No,
but I’m taking a bigger cut.”
“Sounds
good. As soon as I get out of the hospital, I’ll get your digits and transfer
the money.”
“Hospital?
Whoa, you really meant that. I thought you just made it up.” She paused. “Are
you okay?”
“Not
quite sure yet. I just woke up.”
“And
I’m the first person you called?” She grinned through the phone. “I like that.”
“Don’t
get cocky. It’s your brains I’m after.”
“Well,
I want your money, so I guess we make a fine pair.” She laughed. “Really
though, get better. I’ll hold down the fort on this. As long as I know the
money is coming, I can get the patent filed and we’ll move forward.”
“Sounds
perfect.” He lifted the phone from his face, eyes already closed. Misty gently
removed the phone from his limp fingers.
“I
need details!”
Cameron
smiled at her use of movie quotes and accents whenever she got excited. “Tell
you when I wake up.”
“One
question. Who is Peter?”
Freaking
bat ears. “My alter-ego.”
She
let it rest, and he settled into the too-stuffed hospital pillows, barely
noticing the additional discomfort. Had he ever felt this tired before?
*
* *
An
alarm rang somewhere to his right and Cam reached for it, grasping and slapping
until he managed to smash the infernal contraption. Was this some kind of joke?
It was just like his sister to bring an old-fashioned alarm to drive him crazy,
or maybe more research for her book.
“Misty,”
he started.
“Misty?”
a deep voice to his right asked. “Who is Misty?”
Cameron
jumped sideways, eyes open in a flash. He took in the broken-down room and the
half-naked woman in the queen bed beside him with a single glance, his stomach
in his throat. “What the—”
Rolling
awkwardly from the bed, he tumbled up and around as he stared at the room, grasping
at straws and heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. He’d been in an accident,
no? And a hospital? Who was this woman and where was he? The room was about as
far from a hospital’s serene sterility as it could get.
She
sat up, letting the sheet fall away as she moved toward him with concern. “Mi
amor? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Cameron
blushed hard, looking at anything except her. Not that the view wasn’t nice.
Part of him wanted to appreciate it, shocking him even more than his current
location. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten into her bed.
“Uh,
sorry, I’m just having a bit of a ‘morning after’ moment. Where are my
clothes?”
He
searched again, coming up with nothing. A pair of unfamiliar boxers graced the
shag brown carpet. Way too big to be hers… Oh please, no, he thought, please
don’t let her be married.
“Uh.”
His mind scattered into several degrees of panic, floundering for any sort of
forgotten memories that had brought him to this point.
“Babe?”
She moved quickly now, coming to stand in front of him. Her slim fingers cupped
the sides of his face and deep brown eyes stared into his with concern.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?”
Dream?
What dream? His mind felt foggy, but if this was a dream, it was the most real
one he’d ever had. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I honestly can’t
remember last night, or how we met, or—” His eyes rolled up as he tried to come
up with a way to say he couldn’t remember her or their time together without
sounding utterly callous and offensive.
He
expected a slap; the kind from a spurned woman who just realized their
one-night stand was going to be just that. Instead, she gasped, and her hands
tightened. “Peter, be serious with me.”
“Peter?”
And it all clicked. He stepped back and away from her with a laugh. The relief
made the laugh loud and hard as it escaped, taking with it the stress of the
moment. “Come out, Misty, where are you? That was so not funny.” He scanned the room again. Where was she hiding, and
what on earth could she have possibly offered to one of her scuzzy friends to
convince them to get naked just to make the prank more real? “Misty, come on
out. That was a really good one.”
“Misty?”
Her brows puckered in irritated confusion. “Who is Misty?”
“Yeah,
that’s really funny. You totally had me, by the way. Whatever she paid you, it
was worth it. Jeeze, I was totally stressing there for a minute.” He slapped
his forehead, reveling in relief.
“Peter?”
She lifted a hand as if to touch him but stopped and dropped it, then swallowed
slowly. Her eyes scanned the room, and she picked up a robe quickly, covering
herself with it. “What’s going on, babe? This isn’t funny.”
“What’s
your name? You’re an excellent actress.” She wouldn’t get him again, despite
the tiny sprig of doubt. “I have a friend in the acting business, if you’re
interested. I bet he could get you an audition.”
Misty
had a lot of friends who wanted to be stars.
“Seriously?”
Her tone hardened, losing the concern and gaining annoyance. “Quítalo.”
Cameron
cleared his throat and scanned. Nothing but the boxers, a cluttered nightstand,
and the closet with one door hanging off its track. “Can you please give me my
clothes back?”
Rather
than answer, her jaw tightened, and she pushed open the folding closet door to
grab a shirt. She put it on with rough, quick movements, then grabbed a pair of
pants from the same spot and slipped them on around her robe. While he
continued to stand there, waiting for some sort of response, she turned and
exited the room, slamming the door behind her.
“What
the—” he breathed, annoyed. “Misty, come on, cut it out. Where are my clothes?”
He opened the closet door, hoping to catch her. She’d never been great at
holding out on a prank.
Nothing.
Empty. Well, full of foreign clothes. Men’s clothes. Desperation won. He
grabbed a random shirt and a pair of too-large slacks and pulled them on.
Getting the pants on was a bit of a chore, but it wasn’t until the waistband
settled tightly around his middle that he stopped to understand why. Cameron fumbled
with the button and swallowed. They fit. He stared at three identical pairs
stacked in the same spot. The waistband shouted 78, and he checked it twice,
never having heard of such a size. He unzipped and pulled off his pants just to
verify.
He’d
been in the hospital; Cameron laid out the facts; even if she had orchestrated
a trick this all-encompassing, it wouldn’t have been without significant pain
as he moved around. He remembered the pain. It was real.
78?
He
dragged his hands from the center of a massive stomach around to the sides. Flexing
his fingers, he took in the drab brown of carpet, white cinder-block walls with
blankets covering the windows, and sagging bed. A sick feeling settling in his
stomach. What was going on?
He
needed a mirror.
Tripping
to the door, he opened it tentatively, unsure of what to expect. The outer area
was quiet and the immediate view confused him. He stared at a small closet door
and half of the kitchen table. A random little L-shaped wall between him and
the actual room beyond the bedroom door blocked part of his view. Who designed
this place?
Exiting
with hesitant movements, he peered around the corner into the dining room and
beyond into a thin kitchen. The woman stood at the sink, still moving with
angry motions as she prepared breakfast. A large ornate cross hung on the wall
next to the kitchen’s entryway, and to the right of the kitchen, a sunken
living room showed off a pair of stacked, massive speakers and a wide-screen TV
that was too big for the room size. How drunk was he not to notice any of this
when he came in?
Cameron
slipped out and around the wide table, taking in the extensive pathos vines
that wound back and forth across the white wall like a tangled jungle plant
wannabe. The fat spade-like leaves surrounded a Mexican-style plaque that said ‘Mi
casa es su casa’ with a tile home in the center.
Between
the dining room and the kitchen, a break in the wall led into a dark, carpeted
hallway. Camron padded quietly around the sturdy table toward the opening. He hoped
for a bathroom and wasn’t disappointed. The first doorway led into a cramped square
space and Cameron closed the door behind him, turning the lock. He breathed a
sigh of relief at the small barrier, then paused, dreading the next step.
Flipping
on the light, he turned to stare into the mirror and almost puked.
If
he’d been panicked before, he could feel his sanity slipping now. What was
this? He pinched himself hard, willing the dream to break apart; willing the
pain from his accident to return, if only to bring reality with it. What? How?
He
stared again toward the man in the mirror; he took in the dark skin; darker
than any tan he’d ever been able to manage. The dark eyes, almost black in the
dim light of three yellow bulbs. Dark hair too. Black. Mexican. Mi casa es su casa. He was
Mexican? In what kind of fantasy world? What was this, twilight zone-Telemundo
style?
Cameron
started breathing hard, too hard. He could recognize hyperventilation, but he
couldn’t stop it. The panic clutched at his chest, making it impossible to slow
or control. He looked down, trying to find something safe to focus on. Instead,
he saw his wide waist. Huge. Massive. He was a fat man, too!
Bang!
Somewhere, a car backfired.
Cameron
startled, tripped on the toilet that took up three quarters of the bathroom’s
width. He grabbed the towel rack for balance and yanked the poor rod straight
out of the wall, tearing apart the thin drywall behind it. He finished his
elaborate dance by slamming hard against the back wall of the shower, probably
leaving an indent on the opposite wall. Cameron swore.
“Peter?
Peter, are you okay?” The lock jiggled. “Open the door, mi amor. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.
I’m fine.” He assured her, not sure why he was answering to the false name.
Then again, he had a false face and a false voice, too. “What is this?”
He
stared at himself, hoping the older Mexican man could answer the question, but
the man’s eyes remained just as fear-filled and confused as he felt. At least
that matched.
Maybe
that was the problem. This whole experience felt too ornate; too 3-dimensional
for a hoax. Then what? What explained this? His logic failed him. Utterly. He
stared toward the mirror in a stupor.
“Peter?”
The woman’s voice was soft. “Baby, I’m sorry for getting upset with you. I’m
starting to believe you. If you really can’t remember, open the door and let’s
talk.”
“Talk?”
He whispered to himself. What good would that do? He had no idea who she was,
where he was, or what was going on. He needed information.
Shawn’s
face floated to the surface of his thoughts. Shawn had been his friends for
most of his adult life. The man knew a lot of ways to get information. Maybe he
could help fill in the gaps. Cameron turned quickly, working the lock with
thick, unaccustomed fingers until it finally slipped free.
The
woman stood on the other side, assessing him with the same concern as before.
“Peter?”
she asked.
“Give
me a few minutes, if you don’t mind?” He tried to find a path that would avoid
her, but the doorway and hallway beyond were thin, and his girth wasn’t. “I
need to use a phone.”
“Phone?”
She looked confused, then moved aside.
Cameron
exited the room and headed toward the front of the house. The whole front wall
was a massive window spanning eight feet wide and set three feet off the ground.
It opened onto the front yard and the street beyond. The yard in front was
dirt, mostly, with sprigs of wilted, useless grass. Pale green, nearly brown
bushes stood like desert sentries every few feet across the front of the yard.
Desert. Where were his New York city sidewalks and too many people to count?
He
stared at that for a full minute until the woman’s hand touched his shoulder.
Cameron tried to jump, but in his current body, it was more like a rolling
stumble sideways. “Sorry.”
He
could see the hurt in her features, but what could he do about that? There was
fear there, too. Fear for him? For her Peter, he realized, or was it fear of
something else? Of Cameron within her husband?
He
shook away the thought, a shiver of distaste moving through him. “Do you have a
cellphone?”
“Uh,”
she hesitated, but her eyes had already given it away.
Cameron
turned and searched until he found the corded landline. He stared at the
foreign object a moment, wondering anew: Twilight zone, maybe, and back in time
to before cell phones. Oh, please no.
Picking
up the receiver, he dialed Shawn’s number, glad it wasn’t a rotary phone.
He
held up the curved mouthpiece and waited impatiently for the answer.
“Yo,
this is Shawn—” the voice began.
“No!
Not a message machine.” Cam started to hang up.
“Hey,
whoa, it’s okay. It’s not a message.”
“Shawn!”
Cameron gripped the phone, holding it close. “Shawn, I need you to find out
what’s going on.”
“Uh,
let’s back up a minute. How did you get my number?”
“I’m
just glad I had it memorized.” Cameron paused. “Oh, right. It’s Cameron.”
“Huh?
No, it’s not. And that’s not funny.”
“Really,
it is. I swear it.”
“My
best friend is in the hospital, and you joking about it pretty much assures
that I’m not willing to help you.” The line clicked.
Cameron
growled and dialed again. This time the call went to voicemail. “Shawn, look, I
know this is hard to believe, but I swear to you that something happened and
this really is Cameron. I need you, man. Help me. I’ll call again in an hour.
Please answer.”
He
hung up and froze, a feeling of dread like a physical aura behind him. Turning
slowly, he fought the nervous smile. “Uh, right…”
The
strange woman stared at him with a mix of terror and uncertainty. “Who are
you?”
At
least she wasn’t screaming. “My name is Cameron.”
“What
happened to my husband?”
Cameron
nearly choked. Husband. Ha. If only his mother could see him now. “I have no
idea. I’m just as confused as you are.”
That
didn’t seem to appease her. “Why are you here?”
“Great
question.” He glanced up at the mantle of pictures and his smile disappeared.
“Wait—” He stepped forward, picking up the picture of a young girl no more than
five. “Teresa. We went to the zoo, and she had her face painted. It was a whole
day’s salary between that face and this photo.” The words spilled like a
different world; a different life.
She
gasped behind him.
How
could he know some strange child? His child?
He
turned and stared at her as a fresh horror formed. “She’s your daughter, and
mine, I mean, his. Peter’s.”
She
nodded woodenly, on the verge of running in terror.
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