“Mom!” I open my eyes, half expecting to see the Disney star, but instead it’s Rachel’s daughter, Audrey, who yanks the pillow off of me and shakes my shoulder. Did she just call me Mom? Doesn’t she recognize me? I’m her fun and free-spirited Aunt Casey. I squeeze my eyes closed again, willing this bad dream to be over so I can get some serious REM sleep.
Finally, she leaves. Thank God, I was dreaming. But a few moments later, I’m overcome by the smell of poop. I open one eye and find baby Charlotte dangling in front of me. A very stinky baby Charlotte. This dream is so real. I can smell the poop so clearly.
“She needs to be changed, Mom. C’mon.”
Fine. I’ll deal with the baby so I can move on to a much better dream, like the one I had the other night about Brad Pitt. I take Charlotte from Audrey and carry her to her room, fumbling for diapers and wipes. Trying to remember exactly how I’ve seen Rachel change one of these. Audrey looks at me strangely.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like you don’t know what you’re doing.” She folds her arms over her chest and even Charlotte gives me a funny look.
“Well, why don’t you help me out then?” Even in my dream, I don’t want to get shit all over everything.
“Fine,” she says reluctantly before expertly wiping the baby’s bottom and folding all the offensiveness into a neat little ball and securing it closed. She lifts Charlotte’s bottom and places the clean diaper under her, sprinkling some cornstarch for good measure before cinching it up. Wow. She’s really good at that. Even the baby gurgles her approval.
She holds Charlotte out to me and for a moment it doesn’t register that she wants me to take the baby. Finally, I reach for her and awkwardly place her on my hip. Audrey shakes her head and walks out of the room. I wonder if she’s this bitchy to Rachel in real life. I’ll have to ask her when I wake up.
Rachel. We both said some terrible things last night. I run back through our fight, cringing as I recall every hurtful word. As soon as I escape from this crazy dream, I’m going to call her.
John walks down the hallway without so much as a good morning. “Hey there.” I call out.
He turns around. “What?”
Okay, grouchy. I hold out the baby to him. “Can you take her downstairs?”
“Has she eaten?”
“Um, no?”
He looks at me oddly but takes her anyway. Now I can crawl back into bed and end this craziness. On my way back to the bedroom, I catch my reflection in the hall mirror and do a double take. The image looking back at me is not mine. It’s Rachel’s.
This can’t be real. This has to be a bad dream. I pinch myself—hard. Yep, it hurts. I rush to the bathroom and wash my face. But no matter how hard I scrub, every time I look at my reflection, it’s not my blue eyes staring back at me. I tug at Rachel’s brown hair, hoping my blond locks will somehow be revealed underneath. I pull up Rachel’s knee-length cotton nightgown searching for my body.
“How did this happen?” I say aloud, hearing Rachel’s voice. I grip the edge of the white tile countertop and think back to the reunion, the awards, the fight. Think, Casey! What happened next? But the last thing I can remember is that bartender handing us two shots and Rachel and me making a toast.
“MOM!” The calls for me are getting louder and louder. I’m not your mom, I want to scream. I’m your Aunt Casey who should be sound asleep until at least 11 a.m., maybe noon—in her silent high-rise apartment! I lock the bathroom door and sink to the tile floor, not wanting to face the mirror again. What do I do? I can’t hide in this tiny bathroom forever; it reminds me of my dressing room.
If I’m Rachel, then where is she? Is she me?
I start tearing through her bedroom—pulling drawers out of her dresser, searching under the bed—desperate to find her phone. Then John reappears. “Do you hear the kids calling you?” he asks, the annoyance in his voice sharp, a look on his face to match.
“Can you handle it please?” I reply briskly, my hands inside Rachel’s black evening bag finding everything except her phone. Lip gloss, a wad of cash, the ballot.
John’s dressed in running clothes, his Nikes dangling from his right hand. He looks at his watch. “I guess I’ll have to,” he snaps and starts to leave before turning back. “What’s your problem?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing I need to stop acting like a crazy person who just discovered she’s in her best friend’s body. “I’m just hungover. Can I have a few minutes to regroup please?” Even though there’s not enough time in this world to help me regroup from this. I force a smile. This seems to appease him and he walks away, presumably to deal with the kids.
I finally locate the cell phone and start dialing Rachel’s number before I realize that I can’t call her, I’m holding her phone. This is crazy. I call my own cell phone number and hold my breath. Who will answer? If I’ve become Rachel, what’s become of me?
“Hello?” The sound of my own voice answering my phone gives me the chills.
“Rachel? Is that you?” I whisper from inside her walk-in closet, rows of khaki capri pants hanging next to me.