Just then the television pops off pause and Dean is announcing how much Tom Cruise’s movie made at the box office over the weekend. I look over at Casey, who seems tense as she watches, so I grab the remote and turn the power off.
I look at the clock. Even though I don’t want to, I should leave soon so Casey can make sure the girls’ homework is done and try to get them to bed at a reasonable hour. I wonder, what if Charlotte decides to wake up in the middle of the night again because she’s teething? I start to get teary.
“What is it?” Casey notices my face.
“What if we can’t figure out how to change back?”
“I don’t know,” is all she says.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
casey
My checklist for John’s surprise party seems to be getting longer by the minute, mostly because of Rachel’s urgent texts every few hours reminding me to check this or call on that. Considering the last party I threw was in college and consisted of thirty of us standing around a keg with a bowl of Doritos, I’m feeling a bit out of my league. I’ve attended more fabulous parties than most, but I’ve never had a hand in actually planning them. I would just show up with my latest man candy on my arm and drink expensive champagne, never giving one thought to all the hard work that was involved to make it so perfect.
But surprisingly, like so many other new things I’ve tried since becoming Rachel Cole, I’m getting the hang of it. Charlotte is no longer waking up every three hours; she seems to have accepted the fact that she’s stuck with a knockoff of her real mom. She’s been the only one in the family who seems to be questioning my true identity, touching my face often, and seeming as uneasy in my arms as I am holding her. Everyone else has accepted this slightly inept version of Rachel with little or no thought, and I’ve found myself wondering if they just aren’t paying attention anymore. The thought makes me sad for Rachel and angry with myself for being one of the people in her life who hasn’t been more checked in. It’s easy to take Rachel for granted, to count on the fact that she’ll always be there for you even if you don’t call for weeks.
I accomplish a personal record this morning, not only getting the kids off to school and Charlotte dressed in more than a onesie, but even figuring out that damn coffeemaker so John could have his precious cup of morning java. It wasn’t exactly a venti bold from Starbucks, but the fact that I brewed it myself made it taste even better to me.
One thing I haven’t quite figured out is John and Rachel’s relationship. As their self-proclaimed third wheel for many years, I always thought I knew them well as a couple. But now, living her life, being her, makes me wonder if I ever knew anything at all. And every time I try to ask Rachel about it, she blows me off and tells me not to worry about it. But I do. I worry that Rachel and John are living like strangers under one roof. When I pushed her, Rachel told me that this is just how it is, that she and John spend so much energy making sure that Audrey’s grades are college worthy, that Sophie isn’t a hot mess, that Charlotte isn’t going to choke on something random, that they just don’t have any energy left for each other. And to be honest, I can understand what she means after being here for only a week. This life is exhausting.
I reach up and touch my greasy hair and try to remember when I last washed it. For someone whose personal upkeep has always been a huge part of her life, I’ve really let myself—or rather, Rachel—go. I finger the list of emergency numbers that Rachel gave me. She said I could call Jan, the babysitter, if it was a 911 situation. Well, if bad hair isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is, so I pick up the phone.
Three hours later, I emerge from the salon a new person. I broke into my email account and sent an urgent message to Destiny to pull every string she had to get Rachel an appointment at Anya’s for the works—ASAP. Highlights, waxing, a facial, everything under the sun. Oh, and I told her to be sure to charge it to my account. I didn’t want to be responsible for giving John a heart attack. As a regional manager for a large pharmaceutical company, he does well, affording Rachel to stay home and live a very comfortable life. But Anya’s Day Spa is a whole different level. The bill for all the services would definitely make his head spin.
The valet pulls up with my car and I’m so intoxicated from my spa experience that I overtip him. He looks from my dirty minivan to the twenty-dollar bill in his hand in disbelief. Glancing in the rearview mirror, even though I still look like Rachel, I feel more like myself than I have in days. You can thank me later, Rachel.
My phone rings and I answer the private number, hoping it’s her. I can’t wait to tell her how fabulous she looks.
“Hello?” I sing.
“Mrs. Cole?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Yes, how may I help you?”