June, this year
My window is open all the way down as I make the exit onto Highway 94, my hair blowing so wildly across my eyes, it’s almost dangerous. My little red runabout was pretty crappy when I bought it from a used car lot two years ago, after getting my promotion to Senior Digital Marketing Manager at Magnolia. And now the air-con has finally given up trying.
Keeping my eyes on the highway, I reach for the cell on its mount and hit speed-dial for Bonnie on speaker.
She answers with a high-pitched squeal that takes me back to when we were first friends, driving up this highway together. “Happy Friday sunny long weekend! And I’ve finally got the weekend off!”
I laugh. “For once! I can’t wait to finally hang with you this entire weekend and not have you at the store the whole time.” I have to raise my voice over the sound of the wind rushing past my ears.
“Yaaass, girl! Where are you right now?”
I roll the window up a little to hear her better. “Heading up 94. But Google says there’s traffic ahead, so I’ll be maybe forty minutes.”
“Okay, that’s good,” she replies. “I’m still stuck at the store, waiting on some inventory to be delivered. It was supposed to be here at five, so hopefully any time now. If you beat me to the house, you can let yourself in through the basement side door.”
A long-ago memory of Ben playing guitar, younger and clean-shaven back then, and shirtless, jumps unbidden into my mind.
“Gotcha. I have some of that good red wine. Is Ben joining us?”
“I don’t think so, but he didn’t say,” Bonnie replies. “I think something’s going on with that woman he started seeing. Shelley? The daycare assistant.”
Ugh, right. I’d heard about him going on a few dates with some daycare hottie.
“Just us two then, even better,” I reply, covering my disappointment. I mean, it’s always fun when Ben’s around. “Unless, of course, that cute guy from the bakery finally texts you, like he promised. I realize I might have competition for your attention if that happens.”
Bonnie scoffs, in the way she does when she cares about something but wants to make it seem like she doesn’t. “Paul the pastry chef? I’m not holding my breath on that one. He’s too good to be true.”
“Well, he’s a fool if he doesn’t,” I reply. “Okay, I’ll see you in a while, I guess. You won’t be late, will you?”
“Ten minutes behind you, absolute max. And there’s already a cold bottle of white in the fridge — you can open that first.”
I smile. Bonnie’s ten-minute estimations tend to be more like a half-hour, at best, but that’s okay. I’ll have some cold wine to keep me company.
“Cool beans. I’ll see you at the house.” I hit end call, and roll the window down again. The highway is busy, and the air is hot, but I don’t mind. It’s very nearly summer, it’s a three-day weekend, and I’m spending it with my best friend in the world.
I really need this break. It hasn’t been the best week, honestly. This morning, I got an email telling me my annual lease won’t be renewed on my apartment — my cute little downtown studio where I’ve lived for years and that I love — which means I have to find a new place in a very expensive city by the end of July. Which totally sucks.
Added to that injury, since my slightly inebriated talk with Stephen at the office party last week, I’ve been feeling pretty down. It’s been kinda awkward. The following day, as promised, we’d brainstormed slogans for the Vici account — but he’d barely looked me in the eye the entire time. He seemed to be feeling a bit guilty about the implications we both made in our what-if conversation. Which is only natural, of course. He’s a devout Catholic, married with kids, and he let himself slip in a moment of tipsy wistfulness.
In the week since, we’ve laughed much less than usual, and spoken to each other much more formally — mostly about work, plus the habitual morning and end-of-day exchanges. And today, he took the day off for a four-day camping weekend with his wife and kids.
One thing is for sure — a conversation like that won’t happen again.
Not in this life.
Yes, I really need Bonnie and that cold bottle of wine.
It’s another fifty minutes by the time I’ve made it through the traffic to Bonnie’s house in Lake Bluff. I tap in the memorable gate code and pull up in front of the house. Unsurprisingly, Bonnie’s car still isn’t in the driveway, and I don’t have a front door key, but I can probably let myself in through the basement.
A growl of hunger tightens my stomach. I have zero faith in Bonnie being ten minutes behind me, so I’d better order some food. It’s a busy Friday night, and it always takes forever to arrive out here. I quickly ping Bonnie a text.
Should I get the dim sum ordered?
She responds within moments.
You know it! Get the usual, and add the new chicken pot stickers they have. Yum. :P
Chuckling gently, I order a selection of dumplings and spring rolls from our usual delivery app, optimistically adding extra servings just in case Ben shows up, after all. I mean, leftovers are always good, too.
Now there’s just the small matter of breaking into the house. I grab the red wine, leave my overnight bag in the car, and descend the steep sloping lawn that leads to the basement’s side door.
A wave of nostalgia floods over me. That first time I ever came here, when I had also entered through this side door... that weekend changed my life. I’d already gained Bonnie as my new best friend, but the way her parents and brother also embraced me into their lives had cemented our bond into something unbreakable. The weekend gave me a new family — one that I came to love deeply.
If only we hadn’t later lost Ange and Frank in such a senseless way.
If only we hadn’t asked them to be on the road that night.
I shake off the thought, and place my hand on the slightly rusty door handle. That memory again. First meeting Ben, who’d been living in the basement since graduating. What had he been playing on his guitar when we’d surprised him in his underpants? Something that was super popular back then. “Starlight,” that Muse song, that was it.
I chuckle to myself — and at younger, grungier Ben — and hum the tune as I give the door a tug. The frame is even more warped than ever, and it’s stubborn.
I give another, harder, tug on the door. This time, after a moment of resistance, it gives in with a whoosh — almost like a vacuum seal has broken, and the basement can breathe again.
Still humming Ben’s guitar riff, I step into the dark, unlit space, closing the door behind me, and head towards the stairs that lead up to the kitchen. Bonnie has left the stairway light on — which is unlike her, given her zealousness for switching off all unnecessary lights and electrical devices. But at least I can see.
What’s weirder, though, is the unmistakable, delicious smell of Chinese food emanating from upstairs.
Maybe Ben decided to join us for the weekend, after all, and he was way ahead of us in terms of ordering dim sum? I didn’t see his car in the drive, but he often parks on the street to leave space for me and Bonnie.
I climb the steep staircase and push my way through the door at the top, calling out, “Ben? Is that you?” as I enter the kitchen.
I stop. The kitchen looks... nothing like when I last saw it. Different cabinets, in tan wood rather than white, and a different color on the walls, dark taupe instead of cream. An array of food in large dishes all over a black counter, and a bunch of fancy-looking countertop appliances. A red wall calendar with some beautifully scripted Asian characters on it.
And, through the archway, in the dining area... a group of people, a family, sitting around Bonnie’s dining table.
Chopsticks frozen in mid-air, rice dropping, as they stare at me in evident shock and disbelief.
And it’s not Bonnie’s simple, rustic, long dining table, but an oval table with elaborate carvings.
Then, the woman of the group — presumably the mother — screams.
Immediately, it’s mayhem. The mother is screaming, the kids begin whimpering, and the man at the head of the table stands and starts shouting at me in something that could be Mandarin or Cantonese or maybe something else, waving his noodle spoon aggressively.
I hold my hands up. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m Millie, I’m Bonnie’s friend. Bonnie’s friend?” The mother stops screaming, although she doesn’t seem to understand what I’m saying. “I’m here to see Bonnie. Who are you?” The kids, three of them and all probably under ten years old, begin to quiet down, but are still staring at me, wide-eyed.
The man takes a step forward towards me and yells something that I don’t understand. My hands are still raised in compliance.
What the fuck is going on? Who are these people, and what the hell are they doing having dinner in Bonnie’s house? Which doesn’t even look like Bonnie’s house?
“Okay, okay! I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m gonna call Bonnie, we’ll get it straightened out, okay?” I don’t know why I keep speaking English at them — clearly they’re not understanding me. I pat down my jeans back pocket for my phone, but it’s not there — I must’ve left it in the car. Shit. “Okay, I’m gonna go get my phone, it’s in my car, I’ll call her, okay?”
Not okay, apparently. The man is still yelling, and he’s getting louder, and he’s taking more steps towards me. I look at the youngest girl, whose gorgeous little face has a fat tear on its cheek, and it breaks my heart to be scaring her.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, holding up my hands again. “I’m gonna go outside until this is all straightened out with Bonnie. She’ll be here soon.” I back away towards the front foyer, which is painted in a deep plummy red rather than its usual gray-blue, and let myself out of the heavy wooden door, my heart racing.
What in God’s name was that?
I look around for my crappy car, but it’s not in the driveway. Instead, there’s a very nice black Audi and a bright red Tesla parked out front.
I hear a shout from behind me — the man has followed me to the front door to ensure I leave.
“I’m going, I’m going!” I tell him. I gesture around me. “I can’t see my car!”
He yells something else and throws his arm towards the gate — a very clear, get-the-fuck-out-of-here gesture. I raise my hands once more, and make my way to the gate. I hit the release button on the side and it clangs open. I escape as soon as the gap is wide enough, and run a little way down the road until the gate is closed again.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear the blood in my ears.
What the hell just happened?
I have to get a hold of Bonnie.
Taking deep breaths, as controlled as I’m able, I pat my back pockets again for the missing phone. I’m not wearing a jacket, so the only pockets I have are in my jeans.
Hold up. I wasn’t wearing these white jeans before.
I don’t even own any white jeans.
The side pocket has the lump where I put my car keys — at least I have those, even if I can’t remember where I parked my car. I thought I’d parked it in the driveway? I remember punching in the gate code.
I pull out the car keys — and they’re wrong, too. Not my car keys — somebody else’s. There’s a VW logo on the fob, and a set of house keys I don’t recognize.
Okay, this is getting really fucking scary. My head is starting to swim, my vision increasingly blurry.
I crouch on the grass verge of the residential street, my face between my knees, like I used to as a kid when I was feeling panicky about Mom and Dad’s fights. I blow out big breaths.
In for four. Out for eight, slowly.
Just breathe. Then I’ll be able to think.
In for four. Out for eight.
When my pulse has slowed a little, I lift my head.
Okay, let’s figure this out. Bonnie’s house... doesn’t appear to be her house anymore. Bonnie still hasn’t shown up. I don’t have my car, or my phone, or any stuff with me. Apart from these keys.
Well, if these keys are all I have, maybe I can use them. Maybe I can find a phone to use.
I scan the street. It’s largely devoid of street parking, given that the houses are mostly gated with driveways and parking space on the property. But there’s a cluster of parked cars a little further down. I walk towards them, and start looking at the logos on the front. The third is a green VW Golf.
My pulse quickening again, I lift the VW fob, point it at the car, and press the unlock button.
Beep. Clunk.
The unmistakable sound of a car unlocking.
One mystery solved, a whole bunch more to go.
I’m nervous to climb inside, given that it’s not my car — but there must be a reason I have these keys. I take another deep breath, open the door, and get into the driver’s seat.
Perhaps I can stay in here, in this safe, lockable environment, until Bonnie comes home. I can still make out the home’s gated entrance from here, so I’ll see when Bonnie pulls up in her bright yellow Nissan.
Assuming she does pull up.
Given that there’s a random family living in her house, and her house doesn’t look at all like her house anymore... I have a pretty bad feeling that maybe she’s not coming.
What the hell is happening? Have I... slipped into some kind of impossible parallel universe where Bonnie lives... I dunno, somewhere else?
But that’s ridiculous. Impossible.
A sharp spike of fear and loneliness, painfully familiar ever since I was an only child with constantly battling parents, stabs at my chest. The truth is, if I don’t have Bonnie, I don’t really have anyone. Nobody in my life who cares if I live or die, apart from a useless mother who drives me crazy. Okay, sure, I have a couple of other friends from work. And of course there’s Ben, who’s someone I can rely on to be there for me, no matter what. It’s really only been since I had him and Bonnie in my life that the terror of being alone has been gone.
Maybe I should go back to the city and find Ben. After all, I am sitting in a car that I could drive there. But no... he’ll be at the theater, busy with his play. He’ll think I’ve lost my mind if I show up there and tell them this nonsensical story.
Perhaps this car holds some clues as to what the hell is going on. I turn to the passenger side. A black purse I hadn’t noticed before is on the seat. I grab it and, ignoring my qualms about invading its owner’s privacy, open it and tip the contents onto the passenger seat.
A phone — thank Christ! — and a pink leather wallet, along with the usual purse detritus of pens, lipstick, plastic-wrapped tampon, notebook, business cards, tube of hand cream, and tissues. I grab the wallet first, and open it to find out who owns this mysterious car.
Inside is a clear plastic window with a driver’s license behind it.
Mydriver’s license.
My own face staring out at me, and my own name. Emilia MacKenzie, in clear type.
The credit cards, too. All four in my name — two with banks I’ve never used. Various shopping loyalty cards, all in my name, none that I’m subscribed to.
I flip over the business cards that fell out. No names or companies that I recognize. But the moisturizing cream for dry hands is my favorite brand — has been since I was a teenager.
My stomach churns horribly. I might just throw up in the immaculate interior of this weird VW.
Gulping down air, I pick up the phone, which is in a chic navy-blue case. It’s already turned on, but the screen is locked, with a flower background. I look up to the camera at the top, and it recognizes me.
This is my phone. It unlocks through facial recognition.
Except I’ve never seen this phone before in my life.
I immediately open the text messages to find my last conversation with Bonnie, to check that our text thread is normal, before I call her.
But there’s no text conversation with Bonnie. Her name isn’t even in this phone. Nor is Ben’s.
There’s a bunch of text interactions with someone called Chris, who texts most days, about mundane but strangely intimate stuff, like what groceries to get and what time we should meet somewhere. And a host of other people whose names I also don’t recognize.
This is really, really fucked up.
I’m starting to panic again. I force myself to rest my head on the wheel and breathe myself out of it.
In through the nose for four, out through the mouth for eight — slowly, measured. And again. And again.
I try to gather myself. Okay, so I can’t contact Bonnie from this phone. But I know where her interiors store is, in the commercial center of nearby Lake Forest — it’s only a five-minute drive from here. She might still be waiting there for her inventory.
With at least a minor plan in place, I begin to feel a little better. I put my phone on the mount on the dashboard, in case I need to follow a map at some point, or in case she calls me when I’m driving. I start up the car, pull out of the parking space, and shakily drive past Bonnie’s gateway. Fortunately, at least, there’s no sign of the family calling the police on me.
I drive to the stretch of retail outlets in Lake Forest’s center and look for Bonnie’s tiny storefront, which is always hard to spot. It’s a couple of doors down from the European desserts place that she always makes me go into, to get her a cream puff. This time, her little store is even harder to find, and I slow to a crawl, craning my neck to see the name above every store. Surely it’s where that bagel shop is? Why have I never seen that bagel place before?
I brake, check there’s nothing behind me, and reverse slowly, scanning the names above every door. At the end of the block, I drive forward past every store once again.
Yep. Bonnie’s store isn’t here, and there’s a little bagel shop in its place.
Okay.
This is worst-case scenario.
But I’m not going to panic again. I’m not. I’m not. I can do this.
What can I do?
I can go home. Fuck it. I’m giving up, and I’m going back to the city. Back to my cute little rental studio, where I feel safe. I can figure all the rest of this out later. If and when I manage to track down Bonnie, I can tell her everything that happened, and she’ll just have to understand.
I take a right after the shops towards I-94, and put my foot down on the gas and speed up as I approach the highway. But I don’t normally drive from Lake Forest, so I’m not sure where the intersection is.
I press the side button of the cellphone mounted on the dash, and it jumps into life. I speak clearly. “Siri, give me directions to home.”
“Okay. Calculating directions to home,” the Siri voice replies. “In one mile, take the next left and join Interstate Highway 94.”
Okay, that makes sense. The intersection is still a bit further ahead.
I glance at the map that has come up on the phone.
There’s something wrong. Another thing that’s wrong.
Yes, Siri is taking me south down I-94. But then the blue route line runs way past Chicago, round the bottom of Lake Michigan, and all the way to New Buffalo — nearly a two-hour drive from here.
My cellphone thinks I live in New Buffalo.
But I’ve never even been there.
That’s the last thing I think before the grass side verge and a huge green hedge come to meet me.