Chapter 11
“Hello?” My voice cracks, and the room spins. I clutch the duvet under me in a tight fist, trying to anchor my body and stay upright.
“Hey, babe, I wanted to catch you before surgery.” He sounds just like Austin—baritone voice, smooth and confident.
“Austin?” My stomach flips. I’m not sick, but I could throw up right now.
“Is there someone else who calls you ‘babe’?” His voice is teasing, and I can picture him: leaning against the wall outside the surgical suite, phone tucked into his neck and his strong biceps stretching his scrub T-shirt (his name and credentials, DR. AUSTIN WHITMORE, MD, MSC, FRCSC, PLASTICS Mom’s ankle is fine; and Amelia is pregnant and should be celebrating her first day as a newlywed.
At least that’s what life looked like moments before Mary Piggins knocked me down, perhaps causing a head injury and the creation of this alternate reality.
I whip off my sock to look at my toe. It should be buddy-taped, broken after Mary stepped on it…
except it isn’t. My baby toe appears as it did before Mary Piggins stomped on it at the memorial service.
There’s no bruise, zero swelling, no tape. I wiggle it—no pain.
My eyes shift to my phone. I’m holding it so tightly my fingers cramp. Touching the screen to wake it up, I take in the date illuminated front and centre (December 14). Despite Austin’s confirmation, and my seeing it for myself, my mind still refuses to accept it.
“Make it make sense,” I murmur, staring at my phone. “ Make it make sense, Elizabeth. ”
With shaking fingers I open my photos, checking the last picture.
Me and Helena, at the hospital’s Christmas party, which she did not attend this year because she was out of town, visiting her brother.
Then I open my text inbox, looking at the top message.
From Amelia, dated yesterday: “Can’t wait for you to get home! THIS IS NOT A DRILL :)”
Finally, opening my calendar, I touch the Today button. My racing heart pounds in my ears. Yep. It’s December 14. Of last year.
“This is not a drill,” I whisper, choking on the words. I stare into the mirror. “This is not a drill .”