Chapter 7
A loud beeping woke Mary. Her jaw ached, and there was a terrible taste in her mouth. What happened to me? She turned toward Dean’s side of the bed and jolted upright. Not only was he not lying beside her, but the mattress was much smaller than her California queen. This wasn’t her bed. She jumped up and looked around. Where am I? Her mind felt groggy, making it impossible to think clearly.
A sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her. She’d been here before. Maybe? The light-gray walls didn’t jibe with her memory. They’d been eggshell the last time she was here. The gingham-striped blackout curtains had been sheer pink panels, and the hardwood floor had been a dingy oatmeal-colored carpet. The layout of the space was the same, though. Sloped ceiling, windows on the walls to the left and right of the bed, and a tiny closet on the opposite wall.
Outside, clanking metal replaced the beeping. A dumpster being emptied? Yes, that annoying commotion had woken her every Wednesday morning for the four years she’d lived in the apartment in Framingham. Why was she dreaming about her old apartment? Maybe because she’d seen James recently?
The last thing she remembered was Dean dropping her off at the dentist. She rolled her tongue over the empty sockets in the back of her mouth, and Darbi’s crazy story came rushing back. That’s why she was dreaming about the place she’d lived in during her early twenties. The thought bothered her. It seemed too reasonable for a dream. She raced across the room toward the mirror. When she saw her old, or rather young, face staring back, she blinked hard and leaned closer to the image. This is not possible? She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Her crow’s-feet had vanished. Her forehead was unlined. Her laugh lines weren’t as deep. Thick golden-brown hair without a strand of gray hung to her shoulders. Her neck was smooth. Even her teeth were whiter.
“No, no, no. This can’t be.” Her heart thumped, and she couldn’t catch her breath. A panic attack! She hadn’t had one in so long. They’d plagued her through her early twenties but had stopped after she’d married Dean.
Dean! She glanced down at her hand. Her wedding ring was gone. Instead of her usual french manicure, her fingernails were painted an aqua blue. A fitness tracker around her wrist had replaced the silver Cartier watch Dean had given her on their tenth anniversary. She pressed a button on the Fitbit’s side, and the device lit up, revealing it was ten o’clock on Wednesday, June 12, the exact day, time, and year of her appointment to have her wisdom teeth removed.
She couldn’t swallow, and pain streaked across her chest. Calm down. It’s only a dream. She took a deep breath in through her mouth and slowly released it through her nose. Usually dreams had at least one bizarre element that made no sense. She had to find something nonsensical to let her know this was a dream. She would look out the window and see a Caribbean beach instead of a street in Framingham. Yes, that’s it. She pushed back the curtain. There was no ocean or sand, just the plaza with the pizza shop, drugstore, and bank that had stood there for years. She watched as the garbage truck that had emptied the dumpster pulled out into traffic.
Maybe a group of penguins would be camped out on the sofa, watching television. Yes, that would be crazy. She left the bedroom, headed down the hall, and descended the three small steps into the sunken living room. A sofa, coffee table, and television crowded the area. She didn’t remember the space being so small, but maybe she’d been spoiled by the Wang Theatre–size living room in her and Dean’s Hudson home.
The first time she’d moved into this place, she had swelled with pride when she signed the lease—$325 a month, a bargain because it was an attic apartment with a thirty-eight-step wooden staircase leading to its only entrance. Still, it was her very own home. She’d finally felt like a grown-up. Why in the world had she been in such a rush to become an adult?
Her stomach growled. Is it possible to have hunger pangs in a dream?
The kitchen walls had a fresh coat of gray paint, the cabinets had been refaced with cherry stain, and the appliances were modern versions of the older ones that she had used when she’d lived here. She rubbed her temples. This dream was more logical than any other one she’d ever had. Memories washed over her as she ran her hand over the dark-gray laminate countertops. Her parents had been alive when she’d lived here. Once a month on Sundays, she’d make them brunch, usually coconut-encrusted french toast with hash browns but sometimes omelets with sourdough toast. It wasn’t the food that was special about those mornings. No, it was the stories her parents had shared about their lives. She’d learned so much about them after she’d grown up and moved out of her childhood home. Her mom had been a high school track star, and her dad had been president of the student council and voted most likely to succeed. They’d stopped coming to Mary’s apartment after her father’s stroke because he could no longer climb the long staircase that led to her door. Her eyes filled with tears. If she was dreaming she was young again, why couldn’t it be the 1990s, when her parents were still alive?
A red wristlet resting on the kitchen table caught her attention, and she rushed across the room to examine it. When she unzipped it, credit cards, coins, and dollar bills spilled out onto the floor. As she gathered them, on one of the plastic cards she noticed the blue-and-white logo of Channel 77, the Independent Cable News Network, along with a picture of the face she’d just seen in the mirror. For a long moment, she studied the photo. She looked like she was trying to stop herself from laughing. When she was really twenty-four, every time she’d looked at her picture or reflection, she’d found faults with herself. Her eyes were too close together. She had a horrible cowlick. Her pores were like sinkholes. Her lips were too puffy. Looking at this picture of her young face now, her fifty-four-year-old brain realized that twenty-something Mary had been beautiful. She even thought she resembled Olivia Wilde. Yes, she most definitely did.
Her eyes moved from the image of her young self to the name on the card, Mary Mulligan. She’d been Mary Amato for so long that seeing her maiden name was like seeing the name of an old friend she’d lost touch with and couldn’t wait to reconnect with.
The last name Mulligan also made her think of Darbi. Was it possible she’d been telling the truth? No! Of course not. But holy moly, if this wasn’t a dream ...
That badge must mean she worked for Channel 77. She laughed out loud, not believing she was actually considering that this all might be real and not a drug-induced dream in the dentist’s chair. But oh, if it was real, she could change her entire life, wipe away all her regrets. She’d be the best reporter to have ever worked for the Independent Cable News Network. Everywhere she went, people would know her and rave about her work. The station would offer her a promotion. This time she’d accept it, and the entire trajectory of her life would change. She’d return to her fifty-four-year-old self as the country’s most trusted broadcaster, working for ABC or NBC. Liz could keep her job at CBS. Mary wanted to knock off one of the men so two women would be anchoring the nightly news. Dean could compare her with Liz in real time, watching Mary on the television and Liz on his laptop, or maybe using that screen-within-a-screen feature with Mary on the larger screen. He’d see she was better.
Outside, a motorcycle drove by, startling her. The sound had been so lifelike. Usually loud sounds in dreams woke her. Not this time. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. She didn’t know whether to celebrate or curl into a fetal position and hide under the table. She would do neither. Instead, she’d find her cousin so Darbi could explain what was going on.