Chapter 4

Four

H ollis

“Sweetheart! Your scrambled eggs are getting cold!”

I open one eye, then close it again when I notice the pounding headache.

What did I do yesterday? Get hit on the head with a baseball bat?

And when did the B it’s Maple. “You!”

Again, the shorter brunette with a gorgeous mouth mimics me.

I step back, and she steps back. “Is this some kind of Halloween prank?” I ask, with the same results in the mirror.

That has to be it. This is a prank or revenge for taking advantage of a drunk woman. I have no memory of taking advantage of anyone, but I’m pretty sure we both stumbled here drunk, and I’ll take full responsibility for everything that happened after that.

Twirling around and glancing at all four corners of the bathroom ceiling, I call out, “Is this a funhouse thing, like with two-way mirrors or something?”

No answer, of course, just another bewildered look from Maple in the mirror when I turn around to face myself.

Myself.

No. No, no, no, no, no. No way.

Slowly, dreadfully, I look down at my hands. My hairless, feminine hands with black and purple Halloween nails. The delicate bones are not my bones. The wrists are too thin. I’m wearing an oversized purple tee shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, and across the chest are printed two white skeleton hands that are made to look like they’re holding my boobs. Or someone’s boobs. Not my boobs. Sucking in a wavering breath, I watch as my new, delicate hands reach up and cover those skeleton hands, squeezing. Somehow, someone made me hallucinate because these are my boobs.

The thought occurs to me slower than my body reacts. Without thinking, I lift up my shirt and cup the place where my twig and berries should be. And they are not there.

Under the purple nightshirt is a pair of Jack Skellington undies, and I tug the lace down to peek inside. Nothing, nothing, nothing. No balls. No peen. Just a little strip of neatly trimmed curls.

I let the lace snap back into place and prop myself up against the bathroom counter. Even if I am dreaming or hallucinating, I should not be groping or peeking at Maple’s privates.

That’s wrong.

A knock at the bedroom door has me jumping out of my skin.

Hearing my yelp, the kindly woman on the other side of the door calls out, “Honey? Are you okay? Are you feeling under the weather this morning?”

Suck it up, Hollis. Go out there and get through this hallucination, find the real Maple, and sort out who fed us magic mushrooms. I’ll need to explain things to Brayden, the poor kid, if I’m acting strangely on the plane.

Swallowing the paranoia that’s starting to set in—oh yeah, it’s definitely drugs—I open the door to find a sweet-faced woman in her fifties wearing an apron and a pair of eyes that are the same shape and color as Maple’s. She holds out a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast.

“There you are,” the woman says. “I made coffee for you too. You came home early from the festival last night and went straight to bed, so I wondered if you were hungover or sick. Either way, I told your father last night, I said, ‘Matthew, they work her far too hard at that place.’ And he agrees with me. Lord almighty, why don’t you call in sick and go back to bed, sweetheart?”

This hallucination has gotten truly out of hand.

“M-Mom?” I ask hesitantly. She’s not my mother but something tugs at me, and I think I should call her that.

The woman in the apron clucks her tongue and hands me the bowl, then pads away, calling over her shoulder. “I’m getting the thermometer. You get right back into bed. I haven’t seen dark circles under your eyes since that day you forgot your batting helmet, and the pitcher clocked you in the face.”

I wince at the memory.

Wait, I think, stepping into the hallway. How did she know that happened to me in girls’ softball?

But… I was never in girls’ softball. I’m Hollis Hardy. I played Pop Warner football. Why would I have a memory in my head that belongs to someone who is not me?

My brain is scrambled. That’s some good, good shit. So good I might have to sue.

The recurring assumption that I’ve been drugged brings back another memory from yesterday.

Drugs…did Maple say the beer man looked like a drug dealer? She did, didn’t she? She’s from here, so does she know the guy? Is this all an elaborate revenge plot to get back at me for not awarding her the account?

Maple’s mom returns with the thermometer. “Now, open your mouth.”

For a grown woman, Maple sure is babied.

Well, I’m not Maple. And I’m having a crisis, not a fever.

“Sorry, Mom. I have to go to work. I’m fine. No fever.”

“But…”

The sound of a doorbell travels up the stairs to my left. Maple’s mom and I stare at each other, confused. The ringing is followed by a fist pounding on the door and a man’s muffled, demanding voice on the other side calling out for someone to open the door.

That voice sounds a lot like mine.

“Who knocks on a human being’s door at seven a.m.?” Mrs. Morrissey asks rhetorically, clucking her tongue as she gives up the idea of taking my temperature and instead ambles down the stairs.

Oh no. Oh no. This is not happening.

But despite all my denials, I’m there. Or someone in my body, or an illusion of someone in my body, is there. Whatever, it’s me, standing on the other side of the threshold, when Mrs. Morrissey opens the door. All six foot four of me—medium build, dark hair and eyes, a face that could use a shave, and sheer panic on my face.

“You!” I shout.

Whoever is inside my body screams. If my head wasn’t about to split open, and if this wasn’t the world’s worst drug trip, I would laugh at the trilling, screeching noise coming out of what should be my face.

“What did you do to us?” I yell, lunging at my imposter. He backs up and stumbles off the front stoop, my hands fixed on his shoulders. In my current state of hallucination, or whatever this is, I’m smaller and not as strong, embodying Maple. But even so, when I look into those eyes I know to be mine, physically, I see her. Maple is in there, and she’s terrified. And I’m the asshole who’s almost knocked her to the ground.

“Are you…in there, Maple?”

My imposter blinks back tears and whispers, “What is going on?” I drop my grip and back up.

“I thought you might be able to answer that.”

“Someone please explain what is happening? Maple, who is this?” Mrs. Morrissey asks.

With a forlorn expression, the man with my face looks at the older woman and croaks, “Mom?”

“Do you need help, sir?”

The man with my face looks back at me with tears. He whispers. “How did this happen?”

I shake my head, my mouth agape. “I have no fucking idea.”

“Protein muffins,” shouts Mrs. Morrissey. “That’ll sort out this hangover. With loads of chocolate chips. And coffee. Coming right up.” The older woman shuffles away toward a room to the right of the doorway, presumably on her way to the kitchen.

Two sets of eyes follow her, and I hear Maple’s mother mutter, “Lots and lots of coffee.”