replacement
[ Home ]I look into the mirror at my reflection, brushing my hair out of my eyes, staring at my face, which is looking back at me in curiosity. My hair falls back into my eyes, making them itch, and I push the black strands away with an air of irritation. Finally satisfied, I take a last glance at the mirror in her room and descend downstairs to eat breakfast.
It has been sixty-three days since The Incident.
As usual, no one speaks. The man sitting across from me gives an occasional flick of his cigar as he reads the morning news, clearly immersed in some trite political scandal, occasionally looking up and taking a bite of his toast. The woman next to me eats silently,taking quick little mouthfuls of the perfect omelet that the cook has prepared, all the while looking at me with sadness in her eyes. As I take up my fork and prepare to stab it into a blueberry muffin, she looks worriedly in my direction. When I take a large bite, the woman finally loses it, turning around to stare at me openly. I look in her direction when tears start running down her face. The man, too, turns to stare, not at me, but at the woman, whose face is already convulsing with sadness. Even the servants at the side fall silent, looking at me with contempt. Sighing, I realize that I probably won't finish my breakfast again. I slip out of my chair, grab the muffin, and start to ascend the stairs to her—no, my—room.
The woman looks up at me like I am some kind of stranger in the house, trying to find her voice, but she is still wracked with grief from even seeing my face. I jerkily stop in my tracks and turn to face the people on the first floor, dreading the outburst, and finally, the woman speaks. Her voice is a whisper.
"Karen would never have eaten that muffin," she whispers. I am immediately alarmed at the tone in her voice and take a small, cautionary step back. "She only liked cupcakes and chocolate muffins. Never the blueberry ones!" Her voice rises and becomes hysterical. “I knew you weren't my daughter from the moment you arrived home from the hospital! Where is Karen? Where is the daughter that I have loved for sixteen years? WHERE DID YOU PUT HER???” She runs up to me and starts shaking me roughly, looking at me with an air of madness in her eyes. "She's not there anymore, is she? My little girl? She's not in that body anymore." The color drains out of her face, and she collapses, exhausted from her outburst, into the man's arms.
I can offer nothing but a small, whispered "Sorry…Mother" before I escape back to the relative safety of her—no, my—room. I can almost hear the woman's sobs again in my mind, screaming at me about how her precious little girl used to call her Mom, not Mother.
I throw myself on the bed and study the posters and photos taped onto the pink walls of the room, looking at each in turn, smelling the faint scent of peaches that—as I recently learned—originated from her—no, MY—favorite shampoo. Everywhere, I see signs of her existence: a photo of her laughing in the arms of her friends, the large poster of One Direction on the far wall, an outstanding painting she painted which won first place in the high school art competition, the bottles of nail polish and cosmetics neatly arranged on the dressing table. And I know that I cannot escape her presence, even when she herself is not here.
Sighing, I pick up the small black notebook from under the bed, the only thing that doesn't seem to belong in the room. I flip it to a clean page, grab a pen from her—NO, MY—drawers, and start writing.
Page 140, Sunday,March 14, Day Sixty-Three
Things learned about her the other me today: I like cupcakes and chocolate muffins, and I don't eat any other kind, ever. I call my mother "mom" (why did I write this it's on page 3 already)
I need to be careful about what I do and say, or mother mom will get mad at me again. Plus, I'm going back to school tomorrow. Gotta worry about her my friends and everyone else, so I need to be extra careful about what I do. Can'tget mother and father mom and dad into any trouble any more after The Incident.
I stuff the notebook back under the bed and start to think about everything concerning her again. She likes chocolate muffins and cupcakes. She hates dogs because she was bitten by one when she was ten. Her boyfriend is named Matthew. Her best friends are Victoria and Lucy. She is at the top of the school's "social hierarchy." Her birthday is—
I stop myself short, catching myself before I get too far ahead of myself. Not her, me, I think, and resume my memorization of everything Iwill need to know tomorrow. My birthday is on June twenty-first. Because, ultimately, the small details are the ones that will give me away. My favorite author is John Green. And since her—NO, MY!!!—parents are the ones who saved me from certain death in the crash, I have to repay them for what they've done for me. She was the fastest swimmer on the swim team until she quit two years ago. And since she—Karen, the other me—was the perfect daughter, loved by everyone, right up until The Incident happened—My favorite color is pink not blue pink not blue PINK NOT BLUE—I will have to be her.
I am a replacement for what they've lost.