Quantum Flux
Prologue:
My name was Brad. I was 28 years old, black, and working as a sound technician for a rap label. I guess I better start at the beginning, though, if you really want to understand my story.
It was past 1 am at the studio. Working late didn’t bother me much - I loved my job. I loved getting to hear rappers play their beats raw, before people like me applied the polish. I loved listening to the radio, noticing the subtle details most would miss.
I hadn’t had dinner yet, so I stopped by an all night diner on my way back to my studio home in Meadowview, the run down side of south Sacramento. I ordered my usual - steak and eggs - and flirted a little with the cute waitress, Tanisha. I thought about asking her out, but felt a little nervous. Maybe next time, I thought. I had already postponed it a few times, so why would one more hurt? There was always tomorrow.
Meadowview had no great meadows - only run down homes, connected by chain link fences. Cars were parked on yellowed lawns and the noise of shattering beer bottles and boom boxes with the bass turned up too high greeted me as I drove up to my driveway. The pavement was cracked and darkened with age, and the front door and windows bore bars, as did the rest of the homes on the block.
My studio was messy, poorly lit, and filled to the brim with boxes of junk, but I didn’t mind. I turned on the shower and disrobed. I was no athlete, but I had a weight set in my place and the results were obvious. I felt confident in my looks, even if sometimes I felt nervous or out of sorts in a few social situations.
As I drifted off to sleep in my waterbed, I thought about my job. I thought about asking out Tanisha the next time I saw her. I thought about getting a new electric razor and shaping my goatee tomorrow.
I suspected nothing.
Chapter One:
I woke up in the driver’s seat of a large SUV. Not my car - I had a small, beat up car I had picked for the high gas milage. This a boat of a vehicle. Perhaps a Ford Explorer or a Buick Enclave. The driveway was pristine and white asphalt, not anywhere I’d park.
None of that, though, prepared me for the shock of what happened when I looked into the rearview mirror, and saw a pair of wide sunglasses staring back at me. I did not own any white rimmed sunglasses.
And I certainly did not own a white woman’s face.
I took a quick glance behind me, just in case there was someone else in the car, but it was empty. I returned my gaze to the mirror, and removed the sunglasses, my hands shaking.
The face before me was not mine, but it moved when I moved. It blinked when I blinked. It was me. I yelped, but a woman’s voice came out of my throat.
For what felt like hours, I stared into the mirror and wondered what to do. I thought it might be a dream, but I pinched myself hard enough to nearly brake the skin, and nothing happened - aside from my becoming aware of my artificial fingernails. If this wasn’t a dream, I needed to figure out what was going on, and quickly. My breathing was shallow, my face was flushed, and I felt only moments away from running out of the car, flailing my hands, and screaming bloody murder.
Eventually, the calmer side of myself prevailed, as it almost always did. I was not a hothead. I was a calm, deliberate thinker, and I would not allow myself to become swept up into an emotional frenzy simply because I didn’t understand what was going on. In order to regain control, I just needed to form a plan, investigate. Learn, observe, deduce. With an almost religious fervor, I recited the scientific concepts, trying to give myself hope that I could somehow gain an understanding and sense of control of my situation, as long as I didn’t freak out.
The first step was to find out more about whatever new identity I currently possessed. I decided not to drive anywhere for now - I didn’t know where I was, nor where I needed to be going. If I was parked in the driveway of a house, it was reasonable to assume I was either the owner of said house or I was an expected guest. So, with great trepidation, I pulled myself out of the car seat and opened the door.
I was heavier and less dexterous than I was used to, but I pushed any further investigation of myself out of my mind for the time being. I needed to focus to be able to have any chance of not losing my cool.
I slowly walked - it was more of a waddle if I have to be painfully honest - up to the front door. A white coat of fresh paint decorated the pristine home, and a glance to the side revealed that I was in the middle of a row of mid sized, well maintained homes. I rang the doorbell once with my chubby, white finger. Nobody answered. I pounded the door with my fist, my artificial nails making an unfamiliar clicking sound upon the wooden surface. Still nothing. I tried turning the bronze, ornate door knob. Locked.
Something told me to go back to the car, and when I did, I found a set of keys in the ignition. I laughed at loud at how silly I’d been. The laugh was not excessively feminine - a throaty, bawdy laugh, but a woman’s nonetheless. The sound snapped me out of it soon enough, and I returned to the door, keys in hand. There was also a white leather purse by the floor, and out of instinct.
I opened the door and found an immaculate home inside. A foyer in sparkling hardwood was at the entrance, and adjoining it was a staircase that sloped upwards invitingly. As I made my day deeper into the house, I found a kitchen far larger than my entire in Meadowview home, with brass cookware sparkling on a shelf beside it.
The size and luxuriousness of the home was not quite at the level of opulence, and yet it was so much more than I was used to that I felt completely out of place. I made my way up the staircase, eager to see if there would be any clues in the bedrooms.
Pictures of young children decorated the walls, and next to two smaller doors was a larger double door. I pulled it open to find what was a master bedroom.
When I reached the bathroom, I realized that I couldn’t avoid getting a good look at myself in the mirror. I was still in so much shock and denial that I didn’t want to look, lest my gaze confirm this bizarre turn of events even further in my mind. Morbid curiosity got the better of me, though, and I stared intently at the woman in the bathroom mirror.
She...well...I...was white, middle aged - but young enough to be the mother of the children on the walls. Blonde hair, in a short, spiky hairdo, the kind fashionable for women of that age. The skin was pale, but bore traces of an artificial tan.
If anybody had asked me what I’d do if I woke up with a woman’s body last week, I would have told them that I would have spent all day in front of the mirror. I couldn’t help but take off my clothes to take a look, but out of the sake of curiosity, not lust. The white tank top and jean skirt came off easy, revealing large pink bra and underwear.
I wasn’t obese by any measure, but I was rather chubby and flabby. There wasn’t any definitive natural curves, just plump, husky looking features, as though a thin teenager had slowly put on a few pounds every year, for 25 years. My upper arms jiggled wildly as I removed my clothing. When I pulled off my tank top, I saw two large breasts which were barely fitting into a large bra. When I - with an embarrassing amount of difficulty - removed the bra, they sagged lower and fell towards the side of my belly. They had large, brown nipples, and some thin white stretch marks going down their sides. I squeezed them a bit, and they felt slightly cold and extremely soft to the touch. I let them go and they bounced just a little. Then, I allowed my soft, white hands to continue explore further down my pudgy form. Touching a body with long, fake nails certainly felt different.
My belly was fairly large, and hung low on my waist, partially obscuring my view of my genitals. I gave it a firm squeeze, feeling the warm, soft, unfamiliar flesh ooze between my fingers. It was heavy looking, with a large curve supplemented by several rolls. Certainly a middle aged housewife’s gut, I thought as I shook it up and down. Even my belly button was slightly sunken into it.
My tummy was complete with love handles on the sides and flared out to a full, broad set of hips. They were child bearing hips, almost proof positive that I was, indeed, a mom. They were wide enough that they turned my walk into a bit of a waddle that made my ass quiver a little with each step.
Under them were a set of juicy, thick thighs that were slightly dimpled with little pockets of cellulite and little veins. I could feel by squeezing with my hands that I had a large, blubbery buttocks. On the other side was my crotch, which was covered in fine blonde hair. It tingled a little as I ran my fingers over it, and I felt a little shiver make its way down my back as I traced a single finger down from my groin to my inner thigh. Those thighs were rubbery in texture and led to a thick looking set of cankles. Even my feet looked a little swollen, and my toes, like my fingers, wore painted nails.
Was this really my body? I stared into the mirror straight at my reflection. My cheeks were rounded, with a slight double chin. Faint laugh lines touched the rim of my mouth and small crows feet reached the rims of my eyes. Pearl earrings decorated by lobes, and the thinnest lines were visible on my forehead. There were harsh lines between the artificial tan and the pasty white skin that was under my clothes.
I heard a buzzing noise coming from the white leather purse and realized it was probably my cell phone. (My old phone ringtone was Tupac.) I fumbled with the strap, and many items fell to the ground, including a tube of lipstick, a pocket mirror, a large wallet, and a tube of breath mints. Finally, I found the phone. My old phone was an iphone with a black case, this one had a white one. It turns out it wasn’t ringing - it was just giving me an alert. Nevertheless, my heart jumped a bit when I read what the alert said:
“Pick kids up from school.”
Chapter Two:
I put my clothes back on and rushed downstairs. What school did my kids go to? I wasn’t sure. How could I find out without seeming crazy?
On some level, picking “my kids” up from school was crazy. They weren’t my kids and their own mother ought to be picking them up, not me. But this felt real enough that I knew somehow if I was getting the call, they’d be waiting if I ignored them. And I just couldn’t get through this if people starting thinking I was insane - or neglectful. I needed to be there for these kids - my kids.
Thinking fast, I opened the phone’s map program and looked for recent destinations and saw a school nearby in the search history. I put it in, and it gave me directions.
The SUV handled much different than the 80’s low-rider car I was used to. And the streets seemed much more maintained up in Roseville than I had ever seen in Sacramento.
Stoneridge Elementary was a new looking school, with pristine sparkling sidewalks and many different kinds of trees surrounding the front. A large parking lot contained many other idling SUVs, all of them obviously waiting for their children.
I pulled into one of the free slots and waited a few minutes anxiously. I was dedicated to playing the part, but I felt an inescapable dread as the time wore on. So far, I hadn’t interacted with anyone. Soon I’d be talking with my own kids! Or at least, kids who expected that I was going to be their real mother. Surely, they’d know the difference between their real mother and an imposter. What would I say when I was discovered?
At that very moment, I heard the door handle to my car being pulled. I turned to see a young boy with blond hair and a “Spider Man” T shirt pulling at the handle.
With some embarrassment, I unlocked the car door. The boy scooted in, and was followed by a slightly older girl, also blond, who wore her hair in pigtails. I’d guess their ages were 9 and 11, though I couldn’t be certain.
“Hey Mom,” the older girl complained, “you’re not in your usual spot today.” In spite of myself, my heart seemed to jump a little at hearing her call me Mom. But I was nervous that she might already be suspicious.
“Oh, um,” I began, feeling nervous that my voice was going to come out wrong. “It was taken.”
“No it wasn’t,” her younger brother chimed it. “It’s right over there, empty.”
I sat there in silence for a moment, trying to think of something to say. The girl looked behind the back seat and yelped.
“Oh, gross,” she said. “Did you go shopping and forget to unpack the groceries?”
I turned around to see several bags in the back, which was right up against the back seat.
“I guess so,” I replied sheepishly. “What’s wrong?”
“The ice cream is all melty, it’s going everywhere back there,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll get you both ice cream later,” I promised. How motherly, I thought to myself. I was promising to get my kids ice cream!
I suddenly realized that I wasn’t sure what to call these kids. Again, I checked the cell phone and found the tags Madison and Oliver. Somehow, those names seemed to fit pretty well.
I reversed the directions on the phone and started to drive back to the house. After a short silence I decided to speak up. “How was school?” I asked.
“So lame,” Madison said, throwing her voice affectedly. “I can’t wait until junior high next year.”
“And why was that?” I asked, trying to sound helpful.
“At lunch everyone was sharing this dumb music video. Everyone was acting like it was all cool but it was lame. That’s what bugged me - they said I was weird for not liking it, but everyone was lame for their bad taste,” Madison complained.
“What music was it?” I asked, feeling a little more confident in this conversation.
“Just some rap thing,” she said as she pulled out her cell phone and played the music. To my surprise, it was something that I had mixed!
Without thinking, I started bobbing my head to the beat. “That beat is totally ba...it’s not too bad,” I said, correcting myself mid-sentence.
“I don’t care about the sound, I just don’t like that the girls are all his bitches,” Madison said.
“Well, it’s just...” I began, but I trailed off. I had heard that same thing from many women I had met at bars, and I had always dismissed it with a laugh. Calling a girl a bitch in a rap song wasn’t about disrespect, it was about authentically using the language of a certain culture. Sure, an individual lyric or two might be offensive, but if you repress the language you repress the emotion and perspective of the person who wrote them.
As I ran that train of thought through my head, though, it felt hollow. It seemed to come apart at the seams, a hasty rationalization of what I had spent my career doing. When I thought about anyone calling my daughter a bitch, I felt sick. I didn’t want her to grow up in a world where that was considered ok.
“Madison, those kids are just trying to seem cool by saying they like music made for grown ups. But you are right - it’s lame. Just be glad you’re mature enough that you don’t need to act like them,” I explained.
“Thanks, Mom, but they still think I’m a prude,” Madison muttered.
“How was your day, Oliver?” I asked.
“Good,” he said. “I made a spaceship for science.”
“Great! Are you going to grow up to be an astronaut?” I asked.
“Mom, you know I’m going to be ‘Spider-Man,’ and be President on the side,” Oliver beamed proudly.
“Why not be President, and then be a super hero as your secret identity?” I asked.
“Mm....” he said, thinking. “Because being President seems more boring,” he said at last.
“That’s probably true,” I said with a little giggle.
When we arrived home, I helped unpack the trunk. The grocery bags were from Whole Foods - an expensive store that I’d never dream at shopping ordinarily. I cleaned the melted ice cream from the back of the car and brought the bags inside.
The kids helped as we unloaded the groceries - which was fortunate because I didn’t know where anything was supposed to go. When we reached the bottom of the bags, there was some packages of candy, which was obviously a surprise because the kids squealed.
“Yay!” Madison shouted.
“I love you, Mom!” Oliver said. I felt swept up in emotion for a moment even though I know they were just overreacting to sweets.
“I love you too,” I said, feeling tears touch my eyes. I excused myself for a moment, not wanting to cause a scene.
I had barely a few minutes to dry my eyes when I heard my phone buzz again. Another alert was up. “Get ready for Lisa and Cindy to come over.”
Chapter Three:
From checking Facebook, I surmised that Lisa and Cindy were my two best friends. They were also middle aged white women, who looked fairly similar to me. They were both blonde and both had pudgy bodies. I went upstairs to get ready.
As I did, I realized it had been quite a while since I had thought about what had happened to me, and why. I was still no closer to an answer on either front.
Had I traded bodies with this woman? Was she, right now, trying to do my job at the sound studio? Or, had that old life merely ceased to exist, while this new one - with my kids and friends - been created just for me? Was it still possible that this was a dream - or a hallucination? Or was my old life the dream, and this is what’s real now?
Once again, I was troubled by the fact that few of these concepts were really testable. All I could do was continue to play my part and eventually I’d have the time to investigate. Perhaps later tonight, after the kids were in bed, I’d drive down to Meadowview and see if I could find my former self.
Until then, though, I was stuck being this woman. According to the computer, my name was ‘Mary.’ I was her until I wasn’t - but that prospect wasn’t bother me as much as it used to. I sincerely wanted to meet my best friends, and see why they were coming over.
I resolved to get ready and try to look my best. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I could use some more makeup. I opened my purse and found it. I stared at it dumbfoundedly for a moment, before resolving to simply try touching myself with it and see if it would come naturally. To my surprise, it did. I also decided to change out of my tank top and into a blousy top that was a lot better for my figure. It displayed my chest, but my stomach was partially obscured by the puffiness of the garment. And the darker color gave it a slimming effect, making it look like folds were just shadows. I wasn’t sure how I suddenly knew these things about fashion, but I was glad I did.
Lisa and Cindy came by with trays of food, which fortunately meant I didn’t have to try cooking. They beamed with big smiles. We all sat on the Sofa and watched a Disney movie, and then I put the kids to bed.
I hugged them both, and tucked them in. I kissed their foreheads, and I told them I loved them, and I meant it.
When I returned, Lisa was already opening a bottle of white wine, and before long, we were discussing our personal lives and feelings in a closer way than I had ever done with my buddies back in Meadowview. Women do have stronger friendships, I suppose. We laughed when funny stories were told, and I noticed how much chubby women’s bodies tend to quiver when they really let loose with a big laugh.
Cindy started to go on this long rant about how her husband was such a louse, who wasn’t even interested in sex with her anymore, when I had a sudden realization - did I have a husband? My children had to have a father. Yet clearly nobody was expecting him back anytime soon. Where was he? Off on business? In jail? Dead?
I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know his situation, so i decided to try to tease it out of them with an open ended question.
“What do you think their father,” I said, gesturing the upstairs area where my kids were sleeping, “is doing right now?”
“Oh, god,” Cindy said. “Ordering up some fried chicken,” she said with a tone.
“Yeah, and parking his car on the lawn,” Lisa chimed in. I didn’t have a clue what they meant.
“Really?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just awful what happened,” Cindy said. “You had kids aged 3 and 1, and he decided to go leave you for a black woman he met down in Meadowview.”
“Lives down there with her and only sees his kids every other weekend, right?” Lisa asked. “Just sends the you the alimony. At least he’s good for that so you don’t need to work.”
“Can you imagine what it’s like? What it must be like to live there, to be there? I can’t,” Cindy said.
“I can’t either,” I said, suddenly not wanting to go back to Meadowview and check myself out. I did not care what happened or why. All I knew is that I never wanted to leave.
I tried to remember what my life was like - how just a few hours ago, I was young, black, and strong. I had no kids, no responsibilities, and an amazing job. But that life seemed so foreign and removed from me. I wasn’t that person. I was a flabby, white, middle aged mom, who drank white wine with girlfriends and had a belly that jiggled during laughter.
This was my home now, and this is who I was. And I never wanted it to change.
My name was Brad. I was 28 years old, black, and working as a sound technician for a rap label. I guess I better start at the beginning, though, if you really want to understand my story.
It was past 1 am at the studio. Working late didn’t bother me much - I loved my job. I loved getting to hear rappers play their beats raw, before people like me applied the polish. I loved listening to the radio, noticing the subtle details most would miss.
I hadn’t had dinner yet, so I stopped by an all night diner on my way back to my studio home in Meadowview, the run down side of south Sacramento. I ordered my usual - steak and eggs - and flirted a little with the cute waitress, Tanisha. I thought about asking her out, but felt a little nervous. Maybe next time, I thought. I had already postponed it a few times, so why would one more hurt? There was always tomorrow.
Meadowview had no great meadows - only run down homes, connected by chain link fences. Cars were parked on yellowed lawns and the noise of shattering beer bottles and boom boxes with the bass turned up too high greeted me as I drove up to my driveway. The pavement was cracked and darkened with age, and the front door and windows bore bars, as did the rest of the homes on the block.
My studio was messy, poorly lit, and filled to the brim with boxes of junk, but I didn’t mind. I turned on the shower and disrobed. I was no athlete, but I had a weight set in my place and the results were obvious. I felt confident in my looks, even if sometimes I felt nervous or out of sorts in a few social situations.
As I drifted off to sleep in my waterbed, I thought about my job. I thought about asking out Tanisha the next time I saw her. I thought about getting a new electric razor and shaping my goatee tomorrow.
I suspected nothing.
Chapter One:
I woke up in the driver’s seat of a large SUV. Not my car - I had a small, beat up car I had picked for the high gas milage. This a boat of a vehicle. Perhaps a Ford Explorer or a Buick Enclave. The driveway was pristine and white asphalt, not anywhere I’d park.
None of that, though, prepared me for the shock of what happened when I looked into the rearview mirror, and saw a pair of wide sunglasses staring back at me. I did not own any white rimmed sunglasses.
And I certainly did not own a white woman’s face.
I took a quick glance behind me, just in case there was someone else in the car, but it was empty. I returned my gaze to the mirror, and removed the sunglasses, my hands shaking.
The face before me was not mine, but it moved when I moved. It blinked when I blinked. It was me. I yelped, but a woman’s voice came out of my throat.
For what felt like hours, I stared into the mirror and wondered what to do. I thought it might be a dream, but I pinched myself hard enough to nearly brake the skin, and nothing happened - aside from my becoming aware of my artificial fingernails. If this wasn’t a dream, I needed to figure out what was going on, and quickly. My breathing was shallow, my face was flushed, and I felt only moments away from running out of the car, flailing my hands, and screaming bloody murder.
Eventually, the calmer side of myself prevailed, as it almost always did. I was not a hothead. I was a calm, deliberate thinker, and I would not allow myself to become swept up into an emotional frenzy simply because I didn’t understand what was going on. In order to regain control, I just needed to form a plan, investigate. Learn, observe, deduce. With an almost religious fervor, I recited the scientific concepts, trying to give myself hope that I could somehow gain an understanding and sense of control of my situation, as long as I didn’t freak out.
The first step was to find out more about whatever new identity I currently possessed. I decided not to drive anywhere for now - I didn’t know where I was, nor where I needed to be going. If I was parked in the driveway of a house, it was reasonable to assume I was either the owner of said house or I was an expected guest. So, with great trepidation, I pulled myself out of the car seat and opened the door.
I was heavier and less dexterous than I was used to, but I pushed any further investigation of myself out of my mind for the time being. I needed to focus to be able to have any chance of not losing my cool.
I slowly walked - it was more of a waddle if I have to be painfully honest - up to the front door. A white coat of fresh paint decorated the pristine home, and a glance to the side revealed that I was in the middle of a row of mid sized, well maintained homes. I rang the doorbell once with my chubby, white finger. Nobody answered. I pounded the door with my fist, my artificial nails making an unfamiliar clicking sound upon the wooden surface. Still nothing. I tried turning the bronze, ornate door knob. Locked.
Something told me to go back to the car, and when I did, I found a set of keys in the ignition. I laughed at loud at how silly I’d been. The laugh was not excessively feminine - a throaty, bawdy laugh, but a woman’s nonetheless. The sound snapped me out of it soon enough, and I returned to the door, keys in hand. There was also a white leather purse by the floor, and out of instinct.
I opened the door and found an immaculate home inside. A foyer in sparkling hardwood was at the entrance, and adjoining it was a staircase that sloped upwards invitingly. As I made my day deeper into the house, I found a kitchen far larger than my entire in Meadowview home, with brass cookware sparkling on a shelf beside it.
The size and luxuriousness of the home was not quite at the level of opulence, and yet it was so much more than I was used to that I felt completely out of place. I made my way up the staircase, eager to see if there would be any clues in the bedrooms.
Pictures of young children decorated the walls, and next to two smaller doors was a larger double door. I pulled it open to find what was a master bedroom.
When I reached the bathroom, I realized that I couldn’t avoid getting a good look at myself in the mirror. I was still in so much shock and denial that I didn’t want to look, lest my gaze confirm this bizarre turn of events even further in my mind. Morbid curiosity got the better of me, though, and I stared intently at the woman in the bathroom mirror.
She...well...I...was white, middle aged - but young enough to be the mother of the children on the walls. Blonde hair, in a short, spiky hairdo, the kind fashionable for women of that age. The skin was pale, but bore traces of an artificial tan.
If anybody had asked me what I’d do if I woke up with a woman’s body last week, I would have told them that I would have spent all day in front of the mirror. I couldn’t help but take off my clothes to take a look, but out of the sake of curiosity, not lust. The white tank top and jean skirt came off easy, revealing large pink bra and underwear.
I wasn’t obese by any measure, but I was rather chubby and flabby. There wasn’t any definitive natural curves, just plump, husky looking features, as though a thin teenager had slowly put on a few pounds every year, for 25 years. My upper arms jiggled wildly as I removed my clothing. When I pulled off my tank top, I saw two large breasts which were barely fitting into a large bra. When I - with an embarrassing amount of difficulty - removed the bra, they sagged lower and fell towards the side of my belly. They had large, brown nipples, and some thin white stretch marks going down their sides. I squeezed them a bit, and they felt slightly cold and extremely soft to the touch. I let them go and they bounced just a little. Then, I allowed my soft, white hands to continue explore further down my pudgy form. Touching a body with long, fake nails certainly felt different.
My belly was fairly large, and hung low on my waist, partially obscuring my view of my genitals. I gave it a firm squeeze, feeling the warm, soft, unfamiliar flesh ooze between my fingers. It was heavy looking, with a large curve supplemented by several rolls. Certainly a middle aged housewife’s gut, I thought as I shook it up and down. Even my belly button was slightly sunken into it.
My tummy was complete with love handles on the sides and flared out to a full, broad set of hips. They were child bearing hips, almost proof positive that I was, indeed, a mom. They were wide enough that they turned my walk into a bit of a waddle that made my ass quiver a little with each step.
Under them were a set of juicy, thick thighs that were slightly dimpled with little pockets of cellulite and little veins. I could feel by squeezing with my hands that I had a large, blubbery buttocks. On the other side was my crotch, which was covered in fine blonde hair. It tingled a little as I ran my fingers over it, and I felt a little shiver make its way down my back as I traced a single finger down from my groin to my inner thigh. Those thighs were rubbery in texture and led to a thick looking set of cankles. Even my feet looked a little swollen, and my toes, like my fingers, wore painted nails.
Was this really my body? I stared into the mirror straight at my reflection. My cheeks were rounded, with a slight double chin. Faint laugh lines touched the rim of my mouth and small crows feet reached the rims of my eyes. Pearl earrings decorated by lobes, and the thinnest lines were visible on my forehead. There were harsh lines between the artificial tan and the pasty white skin that was under my clothes.
I heard a buzzing noise coming from the white leather purse and realized it was probably my cell phone. (My old phone ringtone was Tupac.) I fumbled with the strap, and many items fell to the ground, including a tube of lipstick, a pocket mirror, a large wallet, and a tube of breath mints. Finally, I found the phone. My old phone was an iphone with a black case, this one had a white one. It turns out it wasn’t ringing - it was just giving me an alert. Nevertheless, my heart jumped a bit when I read what the alert said:
“Pick kids up from school.”
Chapter Two:
I put my clothes back on and rushed downstairs. What school did my kids go to? I wasn’t sure. How could I find out without seeming crazy?
On some level, picking “my kids” up from school was crazy. They weren’t my kids and their own mother ought to be picking them up, not me. But this felt real enough that I knew somehow if I was getting the call, they’d be waiting if I ignored them. And I just couldn’t get through this if people starting thinking I was insane - or neglectful. I needed to be there for these kids - my kids.
Thinking fast, I opened the phone’s map program and looked for recent destinations and saw a school nearby in the search history. I put it in, and it gave me directions.
The SUV handled much different than the 80’s low-rider car I was used to. And the streets seemed much more maintained up in Roseville than I had ever seen in Sacramento.
Stoneridge Elementary was a new looking school, with pristine sparkling sidewalks and many different kinds of trees surrounding the front. A large parking lot contained many other idling SUVs, all of them obviously waiting for their children.
I pulled into one of the free slots and waited a few minutes anxiously. I was dedicated to playing the part, but I felt an inescapable dread as the time wore on. So far, I hadn’t interacted with anyone. Soon I’d be talking with my own kids! Or at least, kids who expected that I was going to be their real mother. Surely, they’d know the difference between their real mother and an imposter. What would I say when I was discovered?
At that very moment, I heard the door handle to my car being pulled. I turned to see a young boy with blond hair and a “Spider Man” T shirt pulling at the handle.
With some embarrassment, I unlocked the car door. The boy scooted in, and was followed by a slightly older girl, also blond, who wore her hair in pigtails. I’d guess their ages were 9 and 11, though I couldn’t be certain.
“Hey Mom,” the older girl complained, “you’re not in your usual spot today.” In spite of myself, my heart seemed to jump a little at hearing her call me Mom. But I was nervous that she might already be suspicious.
“Oh, um,” I began, feeling nervous that my voice was going to come out wrong. “It was taken.”
“No it wasn’t,” her younger brother chimed it. “It’s right over there, empty.”
I sat there in silence for a moment, trying to think of something to say. The girl looked behind the back seat and yelped.
“Oh, gross,” she said. “Did you go shopping and forget to unpack the groceries?”
I turned around to see several bags in the back, which was right up against the back seat.
“I guess so,” I replied sheepishly. “What’s wrong?”
“The ice cream is all melty, it’s going everywhere back there,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll get you both ice cream later,” I promised. How motherly, I thought to myself. I was promising to get my kids ice cream!
I suddenly realized that I wasn’t sure what to call these kids. Again, I checked the cell phone and found the tags Madison and Oliver. Somehow, those names seemed to fit pretty well.
I reversed the directions on the phone and started to drive back to the house. After a short silence I decided to speak up. “How was school?” I asked.
“So lame,” Madison said, throwing her voice affectedly. “I can’t wait until junior high next year.”
“And why was that?” I asked, trying to sound helpful.
“At lunch everyone was sharing this dumb music video. Everyone was acting like it was all cool but it was lame. That’s what bugged me - they said I was weird for not liking it, but everyone was lame for their bad taste,” Madison complained.
“What music was it?” I asked, feeling a little more confident in this conversation.
“Just some rap thing,” she said as she pulled out her cell phone and played the music. To my surprise, it was something that I had mixed!
Without thinking, I started bobbing my head to the beat. “That beat is totally ba...it’s not too bad,” I said, correcting myself mid-sentence.
“I don’t care about the sound, I just don’t like that the girls are all his bitches,” Madison said.
“Well, it’s just...” I began, but I trailed off. I had heard that same thing from many women I had met at bars, and I had always dismissed it with a laugh. Calling a girl a bitch in a rap song wasn’t about disrespect, it was about authentically using the language of a certain culture. Sure, an individual lyric or two might be offensive, but if you repress the language you repress the emotion and perspective of the person who wrote them.
As I ran that train of thought through my head, though, it felt hollow. It seemed to come apart at the seams, a hasty rationalization of what I had spent my career doing. When I thought about anyone calling my daughter a bitch, I felt sick. I didn’t want her to grow up in a world where that was considered ok.
“Madison, those kids are just trying to seem cool by saying they like music made for grown ups. But you are right - it’s lame. Just be glad you’re mature enough that you don’t need to act like them,” I explained.
“Thanks, Mom, but they still think I’m a prude,” Madison muttered.
“How was your day, Oliver?” I asked.
“Good,” he said. “I made a spaceship for science.”
“Great! Are you going to grow up to be an astronaut?” I asked.
“Mom, you know I’m going to be ‘Spider-Man,’ and be President on the side,” Oliver beamed proudly.
“Why not be President, and then be a super hero as your secret identity?” I asked.
“Mm....” he said, thinking. “Because being President seems more boring,” he said at last.
“That’s probably true,” I said with a little giggle.
When we arrived home, I helped unpack the trunk. The grocery bags were from Whole Foods - an expensive store that I’d never dream at shopping ordinarily. I cleaned the melted ice cream from the back of the car and brought the bags inside.
The kids helped as we unloaded the groceries - which was fortunate because I didn’t know where anything was supposed to go. When we reached the bottom of the bags, there was some packages of candy, which was obviously a surprise because the kids squealed.
“Yay!” Madison shouted.
“I love you, Mom!” Oliver said. I felt swept up in emotion for a moment even though I know they were just overreacting to sweets.
“I love you too,” I said, feeling tears touch my eyes. I excused myself for a moment, not wanting to cause a scene.
I had barely a few minutes to dry my eyes when I heard my phone buzz again. Another alert was up. “Get ready for Lisa and Cindy to come over.”
Chapter Three:
From checking Facebook, I surmised that Lisa and Cindy were my two best friends. They were also middle aged white women, who looked fairly similar to me. They were both blonde and both had pudgy bodies. I went upstairs to get ready.
As I did, I realized it had been quite a while since I had thought about what had happened to me, and why. I was still no closer to an answer on either front.
Had I traded bodies with this woman? Was she, right now, trying to do my job at the sound studio? Or, had that old life merely ceased to exist, while this new one - with my kids and friends - been created just for me? Was it still possible that this was a dream - or a hallucination? Or was my old life the dream, and this is what’s real now?
Once again, I was troubled by the fact that few of these concepts were really testable. All I could do was continue to play my part and eventually I’d have the time to investigate. Perhaps later tonight, after the kids were in bed, I’d drive down to Meadowview and see if I could find my former self.
Until then, though, I was stuck being this woman. According to the computer, my name was ‘Mary.’ I was her until I wasn’t - but that prospect wasn’t bother me as much as it used to. I sincerely wanted to meet my best friends, and see why they were coming over.
I resolved to get ready and try to look my best. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I could use some more makeup. I opened my purse and found it. I stared at it dumbfoundedly for a moment, before resolving to simply try touching myself with it and see if it would come naturally. To my surprise, it did. I also decided to change out of my tank top and into a blousy top that was a lot better for my figure. It displayed my chest, but my stomach was partially obscured by the puffiness of the garment. And the darker color gave it a slimming effect, making it look like folds were just shadows. I wasn’t sure how I suddenly knew these things about fashion, but I was glad I did.
Lisa and Cindy came by with trays of food, which fortunately meant I didn’t have to try cooking. They beamed with big smiles. We all sat on the Sofa and watched a Disney movie, and then I put the kids to bed.
I hugged them both, and tucked them in. I kissed their foreheads, and I told them I loved them, and I meant it.
When I returned, Lisa was already opening a bottle of white wine, and before long, we were discussing our personal lives and feelings in a closer way than I had ever done with my buddies back in Meadowview. Women do have stronger friendships, I suppose. We laughed when funny stories were told, and I noticed how much chubby women’s bodies tend to quiver when they really let loose with a big laugh.
Cindy started to go on this long rant about how her husband was such a louse, who wasn’t even interested in sex with her anymore, when I had a sudden realization - did I have a husband? My children had to have a father. Yet clearly nobody was expecting him back anytime soon. Where was he? Off on business? In jail? Dead?
I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know his situation, so i decided to try to tease it out of them with an open ended question.
“What do you think their father,” I said, gesturing the upstairs area where my kids were sleeping, “is doing right now?”
“Oh, god,” Cindy said. “Ordering up some fried chicken,” she said with a tone.
“Yeah, and parking his car on the lawn,” Lisa chimed in. I didn’t have a clue what they meant.
“Really?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s just awful what happened,” Cindy said. “You had kids aged 3 and 1, and he decided to go leave you for a black woman he met down in Meadowview.”
“Lives down there with her and only sees his kids every other weekend, right?” Lisa asked. “Just sends the you the alimony. At least he’s good for that so you don’t need to work.”
“Can you imagine what it’s like? What it must be like to live there, to be there? I can’t,” Cindy said.
“I can’t either,” I said, suddenly not wanting to go back to Meadowview and check myself out. I did not care what happened or why. All I knew is that I never wanted to leave.
I tried to remember what my life was like - how just a few hours ago, I was young, black, and strong. I had no kids, no responsibilities, and an amazing job. But that life seemed so foreign and removed from me. I wasn’t that person. I was a flabby, white, middle aged mom, who drank white wine with girlfriends and had a belly that jiggled during laughter.
This was my home now, and this is who I was. And I never wanted it to change.