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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?”
