Wished

Chapter 6

6

I bang the side of my fist against my apartment door. I’m sweaty and exhausted from running miles around the lake and back to my neighborhood. My feet are torn up and stinging, and I’m dreading looking at the damage. For the last mile I sort of hobble-limped down the sidewalk, dragging in great gulps of air. A few people honked, two whistled, and a man offered me his coupon to a steak restaurant on the water. I imagine I look like I’m coming off a massive bender.

There’s a stitch in my side that feels like the handyman shoved his screwdriver into my appendix and is still twisting the blade.

I’d double over if I thought it’d help, but I’m pretty sure that would only make the pain worse. My heart rampages around my chest like a wild animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage, and I draw in a great, gulping lungful of air.

Come on, Mom. Answer the door.

She doesn’t start her shift until the afternoon. She might be in bed still, sleeping off the wine, but the volume of my knocking should wake her.

“Mom!” I call, knocking harder.

The door swings open and I stumble forward, caught off-balance by the force of my knocking. A tall woman in a purple sweat suit catches me. She’s the size of a professional bodybuilder, with muscular legs, biceps as big as my thighs, and a thick, muscular neck.

I have no idea who she is or what she’s doing in my apartment.

She shoves me and I trip backward like a pinball, ricocheting from one point to another. I wince as the cuts on my feet scrape against the tile floor.

“Ow, ouch.” I catch myself on the doorframe and give the woman a smile, just to show I’m not upset she shoved me like a rugby player and now she’s blocking my door. “You know,” I say, “I’ve had a rough morning. I bet you can tell. Can you please”—I wave my hand, gesturing for her to move—“let me in?”

Instead of stepping aside, the woman crosses her arms over her chest, making her muscles even more prominent. She widens her stance, blocking the door.

Okay.

Fine.

I straighten up and give her the look my mom perfected years ago. “Excuse me, I need to get into my home.”

The woman is not impressed. She’s not going to move. I might as well try picking up and moving the Jura Mountains.

“Your home?” she asks.

Oh. She must only know my mom. I tap my chest. “I’m Janice’s daughter.”

I wait, expecting the woman to move aside. She doesn’t.

Instead she stares at me as the fluorescent light hums overhead and the air conditioning clicks and moans, sending out a wheezy, anemic breeze.

As she takes in my appearance—my sweat-streaked forehead, my wind-combed hair, my bare feet, and the shirt that hits above midthigh—I get the impression she’s about to slam the door.

So I lift onto my tiptoes and shout, “Mom! Wake up!”

But once I’m looking over the woman’s shoulder, I notice something I didn’t see before. The walls of my apartment aren’t bright yellow, the furniture isn’t cheery red, and there aren’t watercolors tacked to the walls. In fact, the apartment is gray-walled and full of barbells, free weights, and workout benches.

As I’m staring at a barbell loaded with 150 pounds of weights, the woman slams the door. The sound echoes through the hall.

I drop to the flats of my feet and stare at the block numbers painted on the door.

302. That’s my apartment.

302. That’s where I live.

302. That’s my home.

Not anymore , a small voice whispers.

I shake my head. Then I hurry to Dorene’s.

She answers right away.

“What?” she asks.

She’s in a long pink terrycloth bathrobe and there’s a hot mug of coffee in her hands. Her eyes are bloodshot and she looks as if she had as rough a night as I apparently did.

Still, a bit of happiness blooms in my chest at her familiar cranky morning attitude. Dorene’s never happy until she’s had three cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes.

“Dorene,” I say, taking a breath. I press a hand to my side. The stitch has lessened to a mere throb. “You wouldn’t believe how happy I am to see you. I could hug you. It’s crazy. When I woke up this morning?—”

“Excuse me, who are you?” She gives me a disgusted once-over.

All the tumbling, happy relief slides off a cliff edge and hits the ground.

“I ...” I blink at her. “It’s me. Anna.”

She lets out a long sigh as her eyes skim my torn-up feet, my bare legs, and my shirt “dress.”

“Right. Well, Anna, just like I told the last solicitor, I only donate to the Society for the Better Treatment of Truffle Pigs and the Human Rights Foundation for Human-Mouse Hybrids. Are you with those groups?”

She taps her foot, glaring at me. This is the spiel she always gives people asking for donations. She makes up random charities and claims that’s who she’s already given all her money to. I can’t believe she’s using the Truffle Pig and the Human-Mouse charities on me.

“Dorene. It’s me,” I say slowly. Maybe she doesn’t recognize me because I look like crap, or maybe she’s hungover and her crankiness is impairing her vision. “It’s me, Anna.”

“Yeah?” she asks, her eyes brightening. “Anna?”

“Yes!” Thank goodness. “It’s me. I think something crazy?—”

She slams the door.

I hit my fist against the wood. You have to be kidding me. Dorene has no idea who I am. We’ve lived in this building for eight years. I’ve worked for her nearly every day for most of them.

If she doesn’t know me, then that means ... we never lived here? We never met?

I shake my head. I need to talk to my mom.

I knock again.

Dorene thrusts open the door. “What? I already told you?—"

“Do you know Janice Benoit, in 302?”

“The wrestler?”

I shake my head. “Before her. Did Janice Benoit live in 302?”

“How should I know?” She takes a long sip of her coffee, eyeing me over the rim.

Okay. The situation is desperate. There are two options.

One: The world is suffering from a mass delusion. It happens. There are plenty of instances in history where a whole group of people firmly believed something was the truth and no number of facts, logic, or evidence could convince them otherwise. It’s a scary thought. It can lead to all sorts of trouble. I’ve worried about this in the past. The only way I’ve found to combat humanity’s susceptibility to this is to filter every thought through your own conscience, otherwise you’re just an echo chamber for someone else’s delusions.

Sadly, if the world is suffering from a mass delusion, there isn’t anything I can do about it. Especially because I’m clearly hip-deep in it with them.

I’m not a fan of this option. So, moving on.

Two: That harmless little wish I made on Max’s sapphire necklace came true. We’re married, he loves me, and all my history for the past seven (eight?) years has been wiped out. Gone. Erased like chalk from a blackboard.

My mom, Emme, and I never moved to this apartment building. I never worked for Dorene. Maybe ... Is my mom still married to Emmanuel?

My chest tightens at the thought. “You’re sure you don’t recognize me?”

Dorene takes another sip of her coffee. “Are you looking for a job? How are you at cleaning houses?”

Ha. Funny.

“It wouldn’t work out,” I tell her. “You’d end up firing me.”

She shrugs. “You never know. It’s better work than door-to-door solicitation.”

“No, thank you.” As much as I’d like my job back, now isn’t the time. “I hate to ask this, but can I please use your phone? I have to call my mom.”

Dorene taps her finger against the rim of her mug and considers my pleading expression. I know her well enough to realize she’s leaning toward no. She has the same forehead wrinkle she gets right before I ask her if she’d like to watch a movie made after 2000.

“Please?” I clasp my hands in front of me, giving her my most pitiful expression. “Just a quick call. To my mom.”

She slams the door.

But then, before I can turn around, she opens the door again and holds up her phone.

“On speaker,” she says. “I’m not letting this phone out of my hands.”

I nod. “Thank you. Thank you.”

I tap in my mom’s number and hit speaker. I let out a relieved breath when she answers.

“Hello?”

I lean close to the phone, ignoring Dorene’s critical gaze.

“Mom. It’s Anna. Where are you? Are you okay? Where’s Emme?”

My mom lets out a laugh. “Good morning to you too. Nothing’s changed since last night. Emme and I are still in Saint-Tropez. It’s tomorrow that we’re taking the day trip to Monaco. Did you forget? This afternoon she’s painting the boats?—”

“Wait. You’re in Saint-Tropez?”

My mom and Emme are in the French Riviera? Emme’s wish came true?

“Well, you and Max sent us here, didn’t you? What a gift! Three months in our very own villa on the water.”

Dorene snorts and then gives me a longer, more considering look.

Suddenly my limbs feel floaty and my skin has a strange, buzzy tingle. My mouth is dry when I ask my mom, “Me and Max?”

“Mm-hmm. How is my favorite son-in-law?”

“Son-in-law?” I mouth silently. Son-in-law .

Oh gosh.

The breakfast lady, the handyman, the gardener, the woman in the kitchen, and now ... my mom.

It’s done. I did it. There’s no refuting it. Somehow I wished Max and I married.

“Anna?” my mom asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t ...” I swallow. “How long have we been married?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your anniversary. Seven years, isn’t it? I know I told you I thought you were getting married too young, but you proved me wrong.”

There’s the sound of my sister then, calling for my mom to come help her reach a glass in the cupboard.

“I have to go,” my mom says. “Give Max a hug for me.”

And then she’s gone.

I stare at the glowing phone screen, held aloft in Dorene’s hand.

My mom and my sister are living in a villa in the French Riviera. Max married me seven years ago today. Somehow I made a wish that shifted reality. Somehow I’m married to Max Barone.

I ... I ...

I erased my past? I rewrote the world?

“You look like you just got hit by a bus,” Dorene says. “Is your husband cheating on you?”

I shake my head. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about our marriage.

She scoffs and drops the phone into her bathrobe pocket. She looks me up and down. “Or perhaps you’re cheating on him. Is that your boyfriend’s shirt?”

I stare at her.

She takes another long sip of coffee, considering me. “If you want to keep a man, you should always sleep naked. If that fails, steal his car. Naked.”

And there’s the Dorene I know. I knew she was in there somewhere. At least that part of reality hasn’t shifted.

I give her a wobbly smile and take a step back. “Thank you. I have to go. But thanks for everything you’ve done for me. I really mean it.”

Her frown lines deepen. “It was only a phone call.”

I nod and then hurry outside.

There’s only one place I can go now. There’s only one person left to see.