Page 23 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“What do I say if people ask me questions?”

“You claim amnesia.”

“Really?” I think back on an episode of Dr. Phil, when a woman on his show said she had amnesia. At the time, I thought she was just pretending because her husband was ugly. If my husband looked like a basted turkey, I’d pretend I didn’t know him, too. “That’s a real thing?”

She nods. “All those who’ve accepted a new life have professed amnesia.” She must see the confusion in my face and so she explains. “Throughout history, spirits have been offered a second chance at life for a variety of reasons, including, but not limited to, portal jumping.”

“So people who have total amnesia are like me?”

“Some of them, yes.”

“I thought they were just fakin’ it.”

“A person can’t fake it for a lifetime.”

I reckon that’s true.

“It’s worked out for the others. They’ve gone on to have wonderful lives. Well, except for Tutankhamen, but that was before my time.”

“This happened to King Tut?”

“Are you goin’ to make a choice?” The golfer taps the back of his wrist like he’s wearing a watch. “I’ve got things to do, you know.”

Yeah, I know, and her name is Señora Ana Marie Garcia Lopez. I shake my head to clear that image from my brain. “I thought dyin’ was easier than this. This is difficult.”

“Then let me make it real simple for you, Marfa.” He points his club at me. “You can stick around the Limbo Lounge with me or go live as a skinny rich woman.”

“Some choice! A wing nut or a crazy stalker!”

“You wouldn’t have her same problems,” Ingrid assures me. “You’ll still be Brittany on the inside, with all your memories and feelings.”

Hmm. If I’m still Brittany inside, I can convince Momma that it’s really me. If I’m rich, we can get a better house and a new van. If I’m skinny, I can get a hot boyfriend.

“Ticktock, Marfa.”

“Shut up, Raymundo!” I’ll be back home in no time at all, eating Frito pie and drinking Dr Pepper on the front porch of a brand-new house. Heck, maybe I’ll have enough money to buy a ranch. Momma’s always dreamed about being a bona fide cowgirl, and she won’t have to stand on her sore feet all day or complain about her bunions. Heck, she could get bunion surgery. I could buy Daddy a new truck and pull trailer so he can hunt and camp in style and comfort. My mind spins from one possibility to the next.

Ingrid grabs my hands and my attention. “It’s time to make a decision.”

I’m terrified and emotional, and if I could cry, I would right about now. “What should I do?”

“I can’t tell you that, but the window of opportunity is closing.”

“Can’t I stay with you?”

“I’m afraid not, but if you choose to live as Edith Randolph Chatsworth-Jones, I’ll stay with you afterward.”

“Like a guardian angel?”

“I wish. I am just the director of Southwest Thirty-One, but I can help you for a time.”

“How long?”

“Until you don’t need me or break the conditions of your transmigration covenant.”

I put one hand to my forehead. How long before Momma recognizes me if I look like Edith? I suppose Edith has family somewhere, but I’m not going to concern myself with that. “Promise I won?

?t be mean and crazy like her?”