Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 3: The Same Coin

EMERY

Earlier that Day

I've always wondered what it would be like to die. To actually die. The permanent kind of death that leaves loved ones grieving and acquaintances dropping fruit baskets at your parents' front door, somehow thinking that heart-shaped pineapples on skewers will fill the void left by your absence. Or maybe they'd bring mini muffins. Those are less perishable. The grieving often lack appetite. Or so I've heard.

My fingers trail the clean, faded scar in the middle of my chest as I search for a semblance of life in my eyes. I've already died three times. Left this plane of existence. Three times my heart stopped beating, but they brought me back. They always bring me back. This last time, when my soul reentered my body, I felt more on the verge of death than I did before I saw that tempting white light. The blood running through my veins is mine, but the organ pumping intrusive thoughts into my brain is not.

It can't be.

I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, the reflection a stranger. A mousy, ordinary, dull woman looks back at me. Who are you? Do I know you? She nods. A slow, solemn nod that churns my stomach with depressive reality. She tilts her head, eyeing the microscopic crack in the mirror. Punch it. My eyes widen with horror. Punch it, Emery. Do it. See how big it gets. Punch it! My palms coat in sweat as my fingers tremble. Don't be a fucking pussy! Punch it! Do it now! Do it!

Hypnotized by my own destructive voice and a dangerous sliver of sheer curiosity, I wind back my arm. But before I can swing, the high-pitched ringtone of my cellphone seizes my muscles. I freeze, gasping for air that never fully fills my lungs.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, panting as I shakily reach for my phone and answer the call. "H–" I clear my throat. "Hello?"

"What's wrong?" my mother asks. Her version of a greeting. "You sound strange."

"I'm fine." I sigh, collecting my purse and draping it over my shoulder as I rush out of the apartment. "Just heading to work."

Right on cue, my neighbor Mrs. Finnegan pokes her head outside her front door to say hello. Her daily routine. Apparently, our one-minute conversations are the highlight of her day. Her deep frown as I apologetically wave goodbye means I've ruined the one good thing in her life. Maybe she'll drop dead while you're at work and you'll carry that guilt forever.

Shut up! I wince as I get into my car and put Mom on BlueTooth.

"Are you taking your medicine?" Mom asks. "Just because the doctor said all your results look normal doesn't mean you can stop, you know? Did you read that article I sent you last night? There was this one case of a patient who had a heart reject seven years after the transplant—"

"Mom!" I grunt, immediately hating myself for raising my voice. She'll be upset now. Oh, boo hoo, let her cry. "I am taking my meds, okay? Haven't missed a day since the operation, and I don't plan on missing a day. Happy?"

Mom sighs. "I'm not trying too—"

"I know," I cut her off. "It's fine. Let's just... move on."

"Fine," she says. "There was actually a reason for my calling." Really? It wasn't just to micromanage my every move? Shocker. "Your father and I think it would be nice to go out for dinner tonight with you and Tom. What do you say? We can go to Jacques? You love Jacques."

I hate Jacques. I've hated it since we started going there ten years ago. Hated it then. Hate it now. At least I'm consistent.

And a big fat liar. Capital F.