Page 115 of Switch!

Patrick doesn’t move. Even when I walk right up to him. He’s as still as a statue, but I know he’s in there somewhere.

“I think I found a way to help you,” I say. “Hang in there, okay? You’ll be safe here. When I have everything ready, I’ll come get you.”

He doesn’t so much as blink an eye.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “Nobody should have to go through what you did.”

He finally moves, turning his head to look at me. “Nobody should have to go through what she did,” Patrick says. “Either of them.” Then he resumes his vigil.

I decide to leave, but not before vowing to myself to find some way of helping him.

— — —

The following week is rough. Endless rain makes it difficult to be outside long enough to earn a substantial amount of money. We attempt to find sheltered areas where we can play, but business owners don’t like us to stand in their doorways, and few people are out walking around when the weather is bad, or willing to stop and listen to music.

Our free time isn’t much better, since it’s dominated by Patrick’s grief. Journaling always helped me, so I start there, writing down his feelings and hoping it will be a catharsis for him. As usual, Trixie comes up with a better idea.

“We should roleplay. You be Patrick. I’ll be Laura. Then we can talk about it, like they never did.”

We do this multiple times since it’s the most effective way to draw out some of the uglier truths.

“Even if you had been in San Diego with us,” Trixie says on one occasion, “do you really believe it would have changed anything?”

“Yes. I would have been with Serena. She wouldn’t have been swimming alone.”

“Maybe. You don’t know that for sure. Even so, the wave still might have taken her. Or both of you. Adults drown in the ocean too.”

“I would’ve been there to comfort you.”

“That wouldn’t have made it hurt any less. Why do you think it took so long for me to call? The water ruined my phone, but I could have asked to use someone else’s. The thought didn’t even occur to me, because all I could think of is what I’d lost.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted me there?”

“I wanted my daughter back. More than anything. I would have given my own life to make that happen. So no, you being there wouldn’t have helped. Only getting her back could have done that.”

These words are improvised, and while we can’t be sure if Patrick and Laura would have said them to each other, we’ve tried to base them on fact. Trixie has repeatedly quizzed me about Laura, listening intently to any memories I can dredge up in order to better represent her. I do the same by allowing myself to sink into Patrick’s personality. I try to set aside my own thoughts and experiences so I can truly become him. Then we talk. The experience is intense. And emotionally draining. We often leave the apartment afterward to put distance between us and those roles. I understand now why Patrick shoved everything painful behind a locked door.

“Are you ever tempted to switch bodies again?” Trixie asks. “A fresh start would make things so much easier.”

The gloomy weather has finally blown away and been replaced by clearer skies, just in time for the weekend. People are outside again and feeling generous. The dinner rush has come to an end, so we take a break in the park, sitting on our usual bench.

“Yeah,” I admit. “We still have way too much debt to pay off, and Patrick’s life is so damn depressing.” I shake my head when she perks up at my response. “We can’t. It’d be too much like a death sentence.”

“You’re right,” Trixie says with a sigh. “If we get him past this, promise me that the next person you choose will be happy and rich.”

“I’ll try,” I say with a chuckle. “Speaking of which…” I nod across the street to where a heavyset woman is sitting at a corner café with outdoor seating. She’s sipping from a tiny coffee cup while glancing around. “Does she look like a music lover to you?”

“Does it matter?” Trixie replies. “No girls allowed in your clubhouse, remember?”

“That’s just a theory,” I respond, intentionally guiding the conversation to one of Trixie’s favorite topics. “I could try again.”

“Wait.” Trixie navigates to a screen on her phone. I don’t need to ask which. She loves updating the notebook with any new details of my powers. “See what color she is first.”

I slip out of Patrick’s body just long enough to check, Trixie having to support his slumped-over weight until I’m in control again. “She’s blue,” I report.

Trixie raises her eyebrows. “Not purple?”

“Nope. You and I are still the only purple people I’ve seen.”