Her thoughts curled up like weeping girls in blankets, all puffy-eyed and sniffly. She felt like melted ice cream, or maybe just limp asparagus. She had to stop this--stop feeling sorry for herself and just grasp life.
She had never struggled like this before the accident. Her friends back in Texas had called her Pollyanna, for she had always maintained a sunny disposition and an unquenchable appreciation for life. But now, as she slogged her way over the steaming subway grates of 10th Avenue, she felt as though she were a shadow shivering by.
Why did she feel like this? She knew she should appreciate the fact that she’d survived the operation, and that she wasn’t lying in a cold coffin swallowed by the earth. But somehow, she didn’t feel like herself, and it left her in a state of perpetual confusion.
For example, she was really craving a beer and a hot dog, and it didn’t help that the street was lined with wiener vendors hawking their wares. Every time she inhaled, the aroma of roasted meat tempted her, but she knew one hot dog would mean purgatory for the next few hours. It was weird because before her operation, the hot dogs had not tempted her, but now they were like some sort of siren’s call.
Perhaps she was simply tired from the surgery and should go home to rest.
Rest. That was another thing. For a dancer, one day off meant a year of rehabilitation, and she had been out of the studio for three weeks. The doctors had said she could do barre work, but she wasn’t allowed to really dance for three months.
This was ridiculous. There was no way she could take off three months. If she did, she would lose her lead role in Swan Lake to Veronika, who was probably salivating over her accident right now.
She trudged up the steps to her iron-gray apartment building door and turned the key, steeling herself for the endless flights of stairs to her door. Again, the bright pink hue of her door and the charming hand-painted “Miss Annie’s Home Sweet Home” sign on it jarred her, and she felt as if she were breaking into someone else’s apartment.
“Why did I paint those stupid words, anyway?” she mumbled to herself.
At the sight of the fluffy rose-colored cushions scattered around the room, her dignity wanted to vomit. She didn’t even like pink... did she? Then, her mom’s sweet voice floated from the kitchen, and she could tell from the familiar aroma wafting her way what her mother was going to say.
“I made your favorite-- quinoa lettuce cups!”
“I want a beer now, actually. Thanks, though.”
Mrs. Moore looked shocked as Annie peered inside the magnet-covered fridge, where she was greeted with a burst of cool, crisp air and the sight of small glass bottles labeled “Fruit Punch”.
“There’s only punch? Why don’t I have any beer?!”
Suddenly, she was enraged. Her thoughts slammed like steel fists into the scorching storm of her fury. She wanted to punch a wall, to set the world on fire with her vengeance. She grabbed her cell phone, but before she could throw it down in her fit of rage, an alarm sounded from the device.
“Ballet from 4 to 6!” it said.
“Annie, sweetheart, I think you’re tired. You just need to go rest for a bit. I’ll bring you some nice hot tea in a minute.”
“No, I have a class to teach. I’ll rest when I get home.” She headed toward her closet and passed a long mahogany table covered with awards for “Best Teacher” and “Dancer of the Year.”
Though she could hardly remember enjoying dancing, she pulled on her nylon tights and black leotard and subconsciously drove to a vaguely familiar building that said “Twinkle Toes Dance Academy.”
That name. She would have to do something about it.
As she clomped through the door, the fragrance of fresh tulips greeted her, along with choruses of “Good afternoon, Miss Annie!” and “How are you, Miss Annie?” as she navigated through the crowd of milling little girls.
There had to be an easier way of earning money than this.
Class began with her calling out patterns and routines for her young girls to follow, and when they began dancing, she started absentmindedly snacking on a bag of Cheetos that was lying on the attendance podium. Her star pupil, Maddy, stopped rehearsing and sped up to her, abruptly snatching the bag away.
“Oh, were those yours?” Annie asked.
“No,” Maddy replied, “but you aren’t supposed to eat junk food!”
Annie felt guilty, but she was craving salty chips. This wasn’t the normal longing for a snack, but an insatiable hunger that tore at her insides. She decided to take the bag outside and finish it anyway.
While she was slouching against the brick alley wall feeding her illegal obsession, a tall, slim brunette cautiously approached her.
“Annie, are you feeling alright? You normally don’t eat junk food at all, let alone a party-size bag of Cheetos!”
Annie stared at the girl, unsuccessfully racking her brain for a name. It looked like this girl was a good friend, and she didn’t want to admit that she had no idea whom she was.
“I dunno,” Annie replied, trying to look casual. “I just really felt like eating them for some reason!”
“Go home and rest, Annie. You don’t have to work after your operation! I’ll cover for you.”
Annie thought for a moment, and then nodded.
“Thanks!”
She wished she knew her friend’s name. Not knowing anything made her feel as though she were in the black hole of someone else’s life.
As Annie re-entered her apartment, she tossed her large pink shoulder-bag in a corner and threw herself on the couch. Before long, her eyelashes fluttered and sealed themselves in sleep.
She was riding a motorcycle, a large beast of a thing that thrummed beneath her legs. Somehow, her body felt larger and heavier, and when she looked down, she saw she had snake tattoos and hair on her muscular arms.
Weird, she thought.
She was vrooming past one of those Norman Rockwell suburbs, where the streets were lined with oak trees that trembled with golden autumn leaves. As she glanced in the rearview mirror, her reflection showed an old, bearded man of about sixty, with bloodshot eyes and an angry face. She felt his anger roil inside her like a coiled snake.
“Gone. Gone forever,” she muttered, twisted inside by a tragedy the man felt of which she was completely unaware.
And then, it was over. The motorcycle bumped over a pothole on the road, and she felt the body she inhabited soar through the unforgiving darkness and crash into pain.
*
*
*
Annie jolted awake with the tension of the peculiar dream resting on her pale forehead, which she quickly wiped off with her soft leotard sleeve.
Her stomach was growling. Now, she wanted a thick, juicy T-bone. And perhaps afterwards she would drive a motorcycle home.
“Wait. What?” she whispered. “I don’t eat meat. And when have I ever ridden a motorcycle?” Ugh. Her painkillers were making her delusional. She pulled a light cotton sweater over her head and walked three blocks to the hospital, where she was determined to get some answers.
As she whooshed into the sterile white environment, she felt cool air rush over her body, making her half-forget why she had come. Then, the sight of her doctor hurrying by sucked her back into reality.
“Hey! Dr. Matthews!” she shouted in a strangely deep voice.
A look of bewilderment crossed both her face and the doctor’s before she shook her head as if to rid herself of the incident. With an effort, she spoke in her normal register.
Dr. Matthews looked up at her expectantly, his grey eyes compassionate.
The words tumbled out of Annie’s mouth in a desperate torrent. “Hi, I’m sorry. I don’t know what just happened, but I came to ask if you could tell me why so many unusual things have been happening to me.” She quickly explained her odd cravings, mood changes, and recent dream.
The doctor’s eyes grew more and more troubled as she recounted her recent experience. After a long silence, he whispered, “Come with me.”
The pair traveled through several long hallways and finally entered a room labeled “Cellular Memory Research.” After pulling out a black rolling chair, Dr. Matthews asked her to sit and handed her a blank piece of paper and a pencil from his curved teak desk.
“Could you try to sketch the face you saw in your dream?” he asked.
As Annie slowly began to draw, the doctor left and returned shortly with a large manila folder. She handed him the picture, and he stared at it and pressed his lips together with an unreadable look. Then, he reached inside the folder and pulled out a photograph which he did not show her yet. The back read, “Timothy Langston, 58.”
“This man is your heart donor,” the Dr. Matthews said.
Annie clapped her hands over her face as she pushed her chair back toward the wall. “No... This can’t be real.”
The tall, gray-haired man looked at her with sympathy. “He died in the exact way you explained your dream. He also suffered from alcoholism and depression, and he most likely enjoyed the foods that you’ve lately been craving.”
Annie stared at him, speechless.
“When we performed your heart transplant, we didn’t know any of this would happen, but there have been similar cases to yours. Some believe what’s happening to you is an urban medical myth, some believe it’s true. As a result, cellular memory is undergoing extensive research...I just didn’t believe it myself until now.”
Annie sat for what felt like hours, trying to concentrate but unable to process even the smallest piece of information. She felt like a child taking an exam for which she had not prepared in the least.
Her life. Gone.
Everything she thought she knew about herself. False.
The things that used to make her happy. Not anymore.
She finally took a deep breath and squeezed her burning eyelids together.
“Nothing can be done, then? I’ll never feel like myself?” Annie eventually whispered, the tears starting to burn her eyes.
Her doctor looked at her with helpless eyes. He was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry...”
“Well,” she went on, gulping. “I guess I should try to make the best out of this situation.” She sniffed and wiped her tears away, trying to smile. “It’s like I have a new best friend, right? Someone I’ve known forever.”
Dr. Matthews smiled. “Someone you know by heart.”