She's Me by Mimi Barbour Page B

You’ve probably seen some of my work in Vogue or Chatelaine magazine. In fact, I’ve been on so many front covers, I’ve forgotten them all.”
    John nodded, eyes partially closed as he listened. He helped her to her feet, whereupon she realized he was looking down at her. This brought on another bout of tears because not many men were taller than she was, when she was dressed in killer heels like the ones she’d put on just that morning.
    It wasn’t until she stumbled that she noticed her rhinestone-studded, three-inch wedgies had been replaced by plain white pumps. They were decorated with hateful tiny bows perched at the junction where her toes were obviously scrunched together, forced into shoes too small.
    Tears fell faster, and she was on the verge of fainting as John guided her to the entrance of the old house while supporting most of her weight, not an easy accomplishment. The unlocked door added validity to her story, and his relief was palpable.
    The room they entered felt familiar to some extent. The old damask draperies embracing the windows allowed insufficient light, but nonetheless she was able to peer all around. She let out a shriek when she spotted the oval mirror. It was like an old friend, and Jenna ran to look, gladness in her heart.
    She passed out cold, going down like a large, felled tree, and only John’s instinctive awareness and quick action saved her from a frightful fall. He gathered her bulk into his arms and half steered, half carried her to one of the two golden wingback armchairs by the fireplace. He sat her down, whereupon she slid and flopped to one side, legs wantonly spread but covered by her rather long, bulky, polka-dotted skirt. Her small feathered hat slid down over one eyebrow, and her cheeks spread like jowls over her chest, similar to a young baby’s before the neck is fully formed.
    Opening her bag, he searched through her belongings for a phone number or address, and his features, thoughtful at first, became concerned and finally puzzled as he held her driver’s permit, dated 1960. He made his way into the sparse kitchen and found all the makings for tea, then searched for a cloth and some cold water.
    It took several minutes of bathing her face and calling to her before Jenna came around and opened her big, brown eyes.
    “What is your name?” He questioned her slowly.
    “I don’t know,” whispered a voice filled with fearful trepidation. “When I looked into the mirror, it wasn’t me looking back. I’ve changed.”
    “You’ve changed?” He used the same calmness and gentleness in his tones that reassured his most troublesome patients. “How have you changed?”
    “My name is Jenna McBride. I was in this same room only a few minutes ago with my secretary, Marnie Yung. I was dressed in totally different clothes, and I was so—soooo—beautiful.” Her screeching wail had him swiftly patting her hand and shushing her in a patently worried manner.
    “It says here in your handbag that your name is Lucy McGillicuddy and that you live a few blocks away on Wilson Street. You have an employment card from the library that names you as the assistant to the head librarian.”
    “That’s bullshit!”
    “Excuse me?”
    “It’s crap, nonsense. I’m a model and was here on assignment with a major makeup manufacturer. I took the last few days as holidays. I’m an American. My home is in Seattle. I’m twenty-five years old. And I’m beautiful. Not like that fat blob I saw in the mirror.” The staccato sentences drilled into him as he sat with his mouth ajar and his eyes bugging out. Jenna jumped to her feet and flew back to check her reflection in the mirror, still disbelieving.
    “Dammit, what is going on?”
    “Do come and sit down, please. You’re wearing me out,” he said, remonstrating, but soothingly. “Your picture is on your library card, and it looks accurately like yourself. You are Lucy McGillicuddy.”
    “No, I’m not! This person isn’t me,”