Becoming Sarah

chapter TWO


In the bedroom was a walk-in closet, the floor littered with discarded outfits. A sequined halter top. Latex pants in a red so bright they hurt my eyes. Shoes with heels three inches high. I touched my cheek to a sweater on a padded hanger; cashmere, and lovely beyond anything I’d ever owned. Sarah’s lingerie was gorgeous, too, tiny scraps of lace and silk. It felt weird to wear someone else’s underwear, but I didn’t have much of a choice. My own tended toward cotton, white, and high enough to cover my belly button. From Sarah’s collection I chose one of the few pairs of briefs from the heap of scanty thongs and g-strings. I pulled on the sweater, and a pair of low-rise jeans that barely cleared my hip bones but fit like a second skin.

I did all of this with my brain working overtime.

If Jamie Lumley was dead, who did that make me? Not Sarah Winslow. I had none of her memories. In my mind I was Jamie, my thoughts, emotions and identity as clear and sharp as ever. When I caught my reflection in the full-length bedroom I did a double-take, still; I expected to see my own face, not hers.

So what had happened to Sarah? I could only think she must be gone, dead as she had probably intended when she took those all those pills. Or had she only meant to dull some awful pain, not to die? Either way, there was no trace of her now. If she still lurked in my brain somewhere, she kept silent.

At the moment, though, I couldn’t bring myself to care much about Sarah Winslow – who she’d been, what she’d dreamed of, where she was now. I had only one goal, and that was to get my old life back. True, I didn’t look like myself anymore, but I – the “I” inside, the “I” that counted – hadn’t changed.

There was only one person who would listen to me and know me. My mother would be hysterical, unreasonable, out of her mind. She never coped well with crisis. When I’d fallen off my bike as a kid, cracked my head on the pavement, and bled all over the living room, I’d called 911 myself while she sobbed and clutched at my arm.

No, it was Maria I needed. Maria would help me figure out what to do.

The iPhone rang as I snatched Sarah’s wallet and keys from the counter, but I ignored it on my way out the door. Her keychain said Lexus and was one of those buttons you pushed to unlock a car door. I wasn’t up to figuring out where she'd parked it, though, and besides, I felt less than confident in my driving abilities. While I’d passed driver’s ed last year, I’d never gotten around to scheduling a test at the DMV. I couldn’t see the point of getting a license with no car in my near future. My mother had once owned a beat-up Nissan, but it had finally broken down beyond repair, and now we both got around on Muni buses.

Sarah’s front door led to a hallway and a narrow set of stairs that took me down three floors. Outside I discovered that she lived in the top flat in a Victorian house, its front painted pale yellow with purple trim. A far cry from the cramped, shabby box I shared with my mother. A whole different world.

Maria would be in school now, but she’d be home in an hour. I needed to figure out exactly where I was and which bus to catch. Two blocks from Sarah’s building I found a corner store, bought a Muni map, and spread it out on the counter.

“Where you trying to get to?” asked the clerk, as he leaned over the counter toward me. “Maybe I can give you a ride, gorgeous.”

I looked up sharply, thinking he was making fun of me. He stared back at me, a young, good-looking guy with a goatee and a look in his eye I’d never seen before – not aimed in my direction, anyway. He wasn’t making fun; he was hitting on me.

“Here,” I said, pointing to an intersection just off Third Street, in the southeast part of the city.

He laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t. Too dangerous for a girl like you. How about some coffee instead? I’m off in an hour.”

“No, thanks.” I’d seen what I needed to see. I folded up my map and left the store, headed for the nearest bus stop.

I was near Haight Street, in a neighborhood miles northwest of where I’d lived all my life. Maria and I used to come shopping here sometimes. We’d check out the cool clothes in all the vintage clothes stores, gawk through the windows of the tattoo parlors and head shops, and laugh at the tourists expecting to find the ‘60s all over again, instead of a huge Gap store and overpriced restaurants selling crepes and fancy sandwiches.

I waited ten minutes for the bus, paid my fare, and sat fidgeting as it crawled up and down the hills and inched its way toward Maria’s. I couldn’t wait to see her. We were best friends since elementary school, so close we finished each other’s sentences. I figured it would take some work to convince her, but not too much. Deep down I was sure she’d recognize some glint in my eye, some tiny habit of mine, before I even said a word.

The Rodriguez family lived above a Chinese restaurant. As I climbed the back stairs to their door, I actually found the stale smell of grease comforting. This was home. This was where I belonged, despite the stares of the men on the street corners, and the bus driver’s “You sure, lady?” when I pulled the cord to make him stop.

It was after 3 o’clock, plenty of time for Maria to get back from school. I rang the bell and waited impatiently, hoping my friend would come to the door and not her mother or one of her three brothers.

When she opened the door, I was so elated that I barely noticed her red-rimmed eyes, or her suspicious expression. It was good to see her face, so familiar, and her dark, permed hair scraped back in a ponytail. She wore big silver hoops in her ears and wire-rimmed glasses as round as her rosy-cheeked face. “Maria, I have to talk to you,” I blurted. “You’ll never believe in a million years believe --”

"Who the hell are you?” she snarled.

“I’m –-“ I hesitated, then plunged ahead “It’s me, Jamie. You’ve got to help me.”