Lucy cursed; she had sprained her back again. She tried to straighten her back but couldn’t, for the pain shot straight into her spine, a vertebrate portion just above her hips. Useless doctors, she mumbled as she forced herself to get up from her squatting position over the Asian style toilet. The pain was excruciating but more so the humiliation of being rescued squatting over a toilet hole.
She kept her back bent as she reached up and flushed then she shuffled to her bedroom. On opening the top drawer of her cabinet, she took out a piece of green sarong, unfolded it and lowered it to try to put it on. She couldn’t, for her right leg would not bend. Finally it occurred to her that she could slip the sarong on from the top of her head. Then she lay on the bed, instinctively taking shallow quick breaths to will away the pain as she stretched her back.
She should call her best friend or sister, but she knew exactly what would happen after that, endless naggings about the way she lived, the way she worked and about how she should take better care of herself.
Lucy stared at the wall in front of her, at the fantasy painting of a whale that she had done the previous month. In her heart and her head she agreed with them totally, and she knew that she should follow their sage advice. Yet she couldn’t and it made her wonder why.
The shadows on the floor began to stretch and reach up the side of the wall. The light reflecting off the white paint in her room slowly dimmed into a warm glow of gold. Lucy’s eyes started to droop and a kind of heaviness, laziness enveloped her like a blanket. It grew tighter and she began to choke in the heat. She struggled and tore at the air in front of her. It ripped and she was free. Sitting up with a jolt, she found herself staring at an oil painting of a perfect whale. She was still in her room, yet it was larger and more opulent.
The colors and furnishing were perfectly Bohemian, everything she had ever dreamed of and desired. She turned to one side and saw a wedding photo of herself and her college sweetheart, Brian. She giggled with disbelief then stood up. Again she was surprised, for the pain was gone.
Curiosity overcame her better self and she decided to explore her ‘dream’, so she snuck out the door and tip-toed down the corridor. The colors on the walls, the wood of the banister as she climbed down the stairs, the shine of the showcase cabinet in the foyer and the feel of the carved settees in the living room were all so familiar. Yet now that she was here, it felt strange.
Her gaze soon fell on a closed double door across the living room. Reluctantly she crossed the room, knowing what she would find but needing to see with her own eyes. After taking a deep breath, she opened the door a crack and sure enough, lying on her stomach in a stupor on the couch in front of the TV was a drunk version of herself.
A mobile phone rang and the other Lucy moaned as she reached for it. “Hello… Linda?” She turned on her back. “I’m fine. What do you want?” She squeezed her eyes together. “No, I don’t want cookies. Brian thinks I’m fat enough as it is.” A pause. “No, he is not home. He is working. He is always working.” Another pause, and then she yelled, “I don’t know and I don’t care,” and she switched off the phone and rolled back to her original position.
Lucy shut the door quietly and returned to the bedroom upstairs to lie down. The same heaviness covered her again, and again she had to tear her way out. This time she found herself staring at a yellowing calendar picture of a whale and an overpowering stench assailed her nostril. She turned and almost screamed when she found herself facing a scrawny, malnourished version of herself. This Lucy, she saw with relief, was still alive for she could smell the fetid breath coming out of her open mouth. Lucy moved away and stepped onto the rubbish strewn floor. She stared down at the other Lucy’s arm and saw that it was covered in bruises and sores. On looking about her, she saw that the small room was a flat, for to one side was a dirty sink and next to that was a single stove. As she approached the stove, she noticed a needle and a burned dirty spoon to the side.
A knock fell on the door. “Lucy? Lucy? Are you home? It’s me, Linda.” There was no reply from either Lucy. The doorknob shook for a moment then a pair of footsteps began to move away. After some time, Lucy opened the door and found a bag of cookies hanging from the doorknob outside. She released the bag and brought it into the small flat, placing it next to the stove. Everything was strange, yet familiar. Then she lay down next to her other self and waited for the heavy air to envelope her again.
When it did come, she did not fight it this time, for she realized that she could see what was beyond the transparent shell as though she was looking through a thin fog. Then when she saw her own painting, she tore the shell open. Immediately the pain returned.
The doorbell downstairs rang, then after a few minutes, her mobile phone buzzed. She reached to the side table and answered it. “Hello.”
“Lucy, you’re not home? I brought you some cookies. I’ll leave them in your mailbox, okay,” her sister’s voice came through the line.
She came, Lucy thought to herself. Then deciding that she had turned Linda away often enough in her alternate lives, she said, “I’m inside the house, but I can’t come to the door.”
“What do you mean?” then a gasp. “Have you sprained your back again?” When Lucy made no attempt to answer, Linda began to nag as she searched for the extra key in her bag. “I keep telling you to be more careful. You know what the doctor said. You should remember to take your calcium tablets, we aren’t growing younger, you know…,” Lucy put the phone away without switching it off, but soon she could hear her sister’s voice climbing up the staircase. Yet for some inexplicable reason, Linda’s nagging didn’t bother her that day.
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