“Dubya. Tee. A. Eff.”

In the mirror, Dutch’s face radiated bafflement and intense irritation. He had gone over Len’s Monday morning routine in detail before he rolled out of bed, every item, using Angie’s trick to activate the memories. Shower. Shave. Brush teeth. Boxers. Clean white T-Shirt. Socks, even though they looked ridiculous when wearing nothing but underwear. Then the button-down oxford, the navy blue wool trousers and the black leather belt with the plain metal buckle. The dress shoes followed. All of it – all of it! – managed without a hitch.

The necktie, however, had defeated him.

Three tries, now. He knew how it was supposed to look, but oddly enough, Len’s memory was almost useless when it came to the sequence of steps that produced the finished product – something Len called a “half Windsor.” It had been decades – literally decades – since Len had needed to think about it at all. His hands just went through a pattern every morning, almost like a magical incantation, and “poof,” the thing was done. Flawlessly, every single time, five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.

“Why would anyone wear this shit?” he fumed. He knew that the younger guys at the office didn’t, but Len had come up the ranks in a different time, and he’d kept the older aesthetic. Dutch shook his head angrily. “If you didn’t want your boss to think you were ready for the glue factory, maybe you should have adapted!”

He realized that he was overreacting. His sleep had been off, interrupted by nightmares where he was surrounded by faceless people in suits who were all pointing at him and laughing. He was honestly scared of making a fool of himself, going into Len’s office and trying to act like he was some kind of somebody.

As he had trundled off to the bathroom for his middle-of-the-night bladder-emptying ritual, he found himself wondering whether he shouldn’t just bag it. Give Ramsey a call and tell him he was quitting. Yeah, Len’s contract required him to give reasonable notice, but Ramsey wanted his slot, so he could suck on it.

But he knew it wasn’t about padding his bank account. Not anymore, anyway. He’d promised Angie, and it was important to her. For the money that would get her off the street, obviously, but also because Len’s reputation still mattered to her. Len’s people mattered to her.

Even though it was now his reputation, and his people. She still cared. And, oddly, he found that he cared, too.

It was all very confusing. But, one way or another, he needed everyone to simply accept that he was Lennart Vansittart today, so he had to find a way to tie a stupid piece of silk around his neck like a noose. Just like he had to wear the navy blue suit, not the gray suit or the pinstriped suit. Len always wore navy on Monday.

Len, he thought, had been a hopeless stick-in-the-mud.

Angie’s words came back to him, like a threat: You should think about what you want that good life to look like, right now. Because if you don’t, in a few months you’ll find yourself just living the life I had. He looked at himself in the mirror and growled, “that is NOT going to happen!”

He tore apart his last attempt at a knot, which had somehow left both ends of the tie dangling around his belly button. With the traitorous thing draped over his neck like a dead snake, he slipped on the suit jacket and went downstairs.

~o~O~o~

The laundry room had no window and Angie had no phone, so she had no idea what time it was. Her dreams, too, had worried her awake. She lay still for a few minutes, listening to the quiet noises the house made – the sorts of noises you stop noticing, after decades spent in the same place. The background hum of the HVAC system. The occasional “clunk” of the refrigerator’s ice machine, mechanically adding a single cube to the freezer’s supply. The creaks and sighs that meant nothing. Just a house, settling a little, as it always had and always would.

She’d miss her house, she realized. She’d felt so very adult when she bought it, and even more so when she’d made her last mortgage payment. A good and conscientious steward, she’d replaced all of the utilities and appliances, the roof, the siding, half the windows, and more over the past twenty years. Painted and decorated every room.

She stretched, and her outstretched hands hit the washing machine. A good, dependable model that she’d spent a week researching before she’d made the purchase. “Well,” she said, quirking a smile, “at least it’s going to a good home!”

She rolled off the air mattress and stood – a maneuver that Len certainly couldn’t manage without struggle. After just two days of regular meals and sleep, her body already felt better. Stronger. Now if she could just stay off the street . . . .

A memory hit her. A cold night, spent huddled in the recessed doorway of a downtown shoe store, mostly protected from the rain. Unable to stretch out. Unable to sleep. Hungry. Always alert for threats. Margaret Mary had so many memories like that.

Angie felt a spike of fear, the worry that, once again, she might lose control and be engulfed in dark memories from someone else’s life. Her immediate impulse was to clamp down. To do what it took to banish the memory and hold tight to her own sense of self.

“No.” She hadn’t intended to speak out loud. But she felt, even more strongly, that there had to be a better way.

Closing her eyes, she went back to the memory. Consciously absorbed it. The sounds of raindrops on the pavement, falling in sheets rather than drops. A chemical smell; oil, probably. The distant barking of a dog. Small, by the sound of it. Her hair was matted, covering her cheek and partly obscuring her vision.

She stayed with the memory, facing it. Reliving it. Then she opened her eyes again. Almost like a prayer, she articulated what she would say to that young woman, if she could. Don’t be afraid. I’m not you, but I’m WITH you. You are part of me now, and always will be. I will not forget you.

Just then she heard Len’s alarm go off. Even coming from upstairs, the sound was enough to cause her hand to twitch, ready to swat the infernal thing into silence. Old habits. But it wasn’t her problem anymore, not directly. After a moment, the noise stopped, and was followed by the thump of feet hitting the hardwood floor.

Time to get going. Moving quickly, she got dressed, deflated the air mattress, and put it away, along with the sheet and blanket that had kept her warm. She walked to the kitchen to face the day, flicking on the lights as she entered, just as she had always done.

Then she stopped, thought twice, and turned the lights off again. Padding over to the big slider window, she pulled on the cord and raised the shade, letting a shaft of morning sun into the room. She methodically opened every shade on the lower floor. Dutch doesn’t have anything to hide . . . and neither do I!

Thinking about Dutch, she decided that he’d need a good breakfast to start the day. A lot would be riding on his performance. She moved around the kitchen, pulling together what she would need. Nothing fancy. Eggs and onions and cheese . . . a potato she could chop up. Bread for toast. Coffee.

Before she started any chopping, though, she had a thought that made her smile. A memory that was definitely Len’s and not Margaret Mary’s.

At the bottom of the drawer which held the dishtowels, Angie had stashed an apron – something she’d forgotten all about when she’d collected everything to take to the consignment shop. And it wasn’t just any apron. Bright white, with a spray of colorful spring wildflowers embroidered on the bodice, and three rows of lace at the hem. She’d bought it on a whim but it had been too tight and too small.

She pulled it from its hiding place, slipped it over her head, brought the drawstring all the way around her tiny waist and tied it off in front. Her smile grew larger. Len couldn’t have worn it, and Margaret Mary wouldn’t have; even before leaving home, she hadn’t been a particularly girly girl.

Maybe I can be someone new, she thought. Maybe I need to be.

Resolving to try, she set about making breakfast, starting (naturally) with coffee. When she heard Dutch clump down the stairs in his heavy dress shoes, she dropped the bread into the toaster and turned the heat on under the skillet. The egg mixture followed just as he walked in the room.

He looked good – rested, sharp, and ready – and Angie nodded in satisfaction. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. Just fine.” He couldn’t keep the exasperation from his voice. “What’s with this stupid tie, anyway?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I have no idea how to put it on – and near as I can tell, you don’t either! You just, like, did it.”

“Oh!” She laughed, but his frown stopped her. “Sorry, I should have thought of that. It’s that whole muscle memory thing again. Don’t worry – I can tie it for you and it’ll be good for the whole day.”

“You couldn’t tell me how to do it, though, could you? Even if you tried?”

She thought about it, then looked embarrassed. “Sorry, no. I can do it, but I can’t explain it.”

“Thought so,” he said with satisfaction.

She served up some eggs, toast, and coffee, and they brought everything to the table. In the bright sunlight, it felt like a much more cheerful space. Angie kicked herself for her years of worrying who might look in and see her dressed in something the world saw as improper.

Dutch didn’t remark on the difference; his mind remained elsewhere. After he’d taken a few bites and gotten some caffeine into his system, he said, “I’m not going to have to worry about muscle memory shit at work, am I?”

“Ahhhh . . . .” Angie mentally went through her work routines, considering the things she did regularly and comparing them to Margaret Mary’s memories. “I’m guessing you won’t be able to touch type. You used the ol’ hunt-and-peck when you typed stuff for school, so your own muscle memory won’t help you. On the bright side, you shouldn’t have to do any typing this week.”

Dutch dived into Len’s memories, and nodded. “It’s good to be king, I guess.”

Angie snorted. “If I’d been king, I wouldn’t have had to worry about getting kicked to the curb.”

“Whatever. Maybe not ‘king,’ but way better than peon.”

“That, I’ll give you.” She took a small bite of her eggs. She’d dared to put a bit of cheese on them this morning, and they tasted much better. “How are you feeling? Nervous? Ready?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Ready as I can be, I guess. We did go over everything four times.”

She knew he was right. But she also knew he’d panicked in the consignment shop, fumbling around so much that Carol, who’d never even met him, became suspicious. Reminding him of that, though, would just undermine him at the precise moment when a show of confidence was essential. “If all else fails,” she said, speaking as much to herself as to Dutch and projecting a level of nonchalance she didn’t feel, “Just fake it ’til you make it.”

“Fake it?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You had me rehearse the actual words you want me to say!”

“I know, I know.” She smiled encouragingly. “Fake it if you forget them. Just remember –”

He stopped her. “Less is more.”

“Less is definitely more,” she agreed, glad that he’d internalized this essential point. Ramsey would try to draw Dutch out and get him talking. Maybe making concessions. The less Dutch said, the better.

He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, followed by a large bite of his toast, both of which provided an excuse not to extend their exchange.

Angie decided he was as ready for the day as she could make him, so she changed the subject. “While you’re out today, I need to use the desktop in the study to research how to get an ID. And jobs, and apartments. Stuff like that.”

Dutch nodded, swallowed what he was eating, and said, “So . . . you want to stay in Alton?”

“I . . . .” Angie stopped, uncertain. “You know, I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of moving away. I suppose I could. Do you want me to?”

“’Course not,” he said quickly.

Too quickly. “It’s me here,” she reminded him. “Your other half, sort of. Not much point in keeping secrets.”

This time he thought about it before answering. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hint at anything. You should live wherever you want to.”

“Okay. But I also care about what you want. What makes you feel secure, and what makes you nervous.”

He took a sip of coffee, set down the mug, and ran out of ways to delay. “I’m in a weird place,” he confessed. “It’s still super strange, seeing someone else wearing my face, you know? But . . . .”

“But?”

“You know how you told me you wanted me to have a good life?”

“Of course. And I do,” she stressed.

He nodded. “I know. I mean, it was kind of hard for me to believe, at first, ’cuz that hasn’t been my world, you know?” But, thing of it is, I guess I want you to have a good life, too.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle. “You say that like you’re surprised!”

“I am, kind of.” He looked embarrassed. “I . . . well. It’s been a long time, you know? Since I cared about other people.”

His confession made Angie ashamed of her laughter. So much had been taken from Margaret Mary that she’d had nothing left to give. Not to anyone. “You know I understand that, right?” She reached over and squeezed his hand in reassurance. “You were barely surviving yourself.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “Still feels strange.”

“Well . . . I do appreciate it, Dutch. And I appreciate everything you’re doing to help me get out of the cul de sac you’d been stuck in. I’ll help you any way I can, too.” She swallowed the last of her coffee and rose, picking up her dishes. “I’ll give some real thought to where I want to live, too. I was just sort of going on autopilot.”

Dutch followed her to the sink with his dishes, feeling like a heel. “Look, I don’t want you to think I want you to leave town, okay?”

“I get that, honest.” She took his dishes. “I’ll take care of clean-up. There’s something I need you to do before you leave. Two things, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You need to go upstairs, get on your computer, and change the passwords that access your bank, your investment accounts, and your retirement account.”

His mouth opened, but for a moment, nothing came out. “What?”

“I’m serious.” She gave him a determined look. “You don’t need the worry, and I don’t need the temptation.”

“I didn’t even think about it,” he protested.

“You should have, though.” She raised a hand to stop his protest. “The only person who should know your important passwords is you. Period. No exceptions.”

Seeing the determination in her direct gaze and the firm set of her delicate jaw, he retreated. “Okay, fine. What was the second thing?”

“Oh, that.” Her expression lightened. “I need to do your tie.”

Ten minutes later Dutch was back behind the wheel of the Benz, following the route that Len had taken into the office every day for decades.

~o~O~o~

Angie watched him drive off, her hopes for the future riding on his shoulders. If he let himself get railroaded by Ramsey, she’d be out on the street with nothing but her wits, and that was something she really didn’t want to face. Maybe he’d give her a hand up even if he failed, but she didn’t want to depend on it.

She understood why her presence made him nervous. To a lesser degree, his presence made her nervous, too – like being followed by the ghost of the person she could no longer pretend to be. Still, she hadn’t thought about leaving town.

As she set about washing the breakfast dishes, she tried to look at the question more objectively. In her twenties, she’d been a wanderer, but she didn’t look back on those years with any great fondness. Rootless and discontented, she’d mostly lived paycheck to paycheck. Sometimes hand-to-mouth. Eventually, she’d woken up to the reality that she was wasting her life grieving for the one thing she couldn’t have.

Alton was just where she’d happened to land after buckling down, finishing college and getting her engineering degree. Jobs had been hard to come by, so she’d taken the first one without worrying too much about the location. She hadn’t been thinking long-term.

But years had slipped by and there’d always been more reasons to stay where she was than strike out somewhere new. The climate suited her – the four defined seasons that gave structure to the passage of time. Summer’s heat and long, sultry evenings, autumn’s crisp air and bright colors, the snows of winter. Spring was cold and muddy, but often enough it was brief. The town was nice enough, with lots of early twentieth century rowhouses and a pleasant downtown area. She would miss it, if she left.

Hot water, a dash of dish soap, efficient use of the scrub pad. First the skillet, then the spatula, then the utensils, the cups, and the plates. The same stoneware she’d had for years . . . plain bone-white with a dark blue trim. One of the plates was chipped from a collision with a frying pan, probably ten years back. She remembered the occasion clearly.

The thought brought her up short. In a bit of a rut, maybe?

She had a whole new life to live. Staying in the same place, doing the same things in the same way . . . maybe that would be a waste of the gift she’d been given. Maybe she needed a clean break from the habits she’d spent a lifetime forming. Starting over somewhere her face wasn’t known, but also, some place that wouldn’t trigger a host of memories from two separate lives.

She dried each dish and utensil with the same worn but serviceable dishtowel she’d purchased at the grocery store years before, then started putting everything away. The obvious gaps in the cupboards reminded her that she and Dutch had decided to try the dishwasher Saturday night.

“Well, that was a big fail!” She shook her head, critically inspecting the job the machine had done. Or, rather, hadn’t. “Either this thing just sucks, or we didn’t do it right.” Fixing that mistake would take another half hour, since the remains of Saturday’s dinner were now stubbornly glued to everything in the dishwasher.

She pulled it all out and got to work. This is me. Suzie Homemaker. I just need a skirt, heels, and pearls.

~o~O~o~

Dutch eased the Benz between the white lines on the concrete floor. In front of him, mounted on the grey wall of the parking structure, was a plaque. White letters on blue. Lennart Vansittart, Senior Engineer. He killed the engine, but couldn’t bring himself to do more. Getting out of the car felt like a commitment he wasn’t prepared to make.

The drive over had been uneventful, at least externally. He kept to the speed limit and had no issues with traffic or directions. Internally, on the other hand . . . .

He couldn’t shake his fears of faceplanting if he tried to walk inside like he was somebody important. Somebody who’d earned a reserved parking spot with his name on it.

He could only pull it off by leaning hard on Len’s memories, and that was scary in a different way. He’d watched Angie get lost in her memories of Margaret Mary’s life, and he was seriously worried that the same thing could happen to him. Maybe someone in the office would say something, and he would be triggered, just like Angie had been triggered out at the strip mall.

I’ve got enough money. I don’t really need more. Why run the risk? Why not just walk in and quit on the spot? If I don’t deal with anyone who’s ever known Len, maybe I won’t have to worry about losing my identity.

He imagined himself turning the car around, going home, and telling Angie he’d changed his mind about the whole plan. In his mind’s eye, he saw the disappointment on her face. Worse, he felt an echo of that disappointment inside himself. If he walked away, everyone in the building would think that Len was a complete jerk. That he was. He didn’t want that.

On the other hand . . . The fact that their opinion made a difference – that they mattered to him – was also evidence that Len’s memories were becoming real to him. Len’s team wasn’t just a group of people he’d heard about; they were people he somehow knew.

He buried his head in his hands. Am I still myself? How would I even know?

Just then, he was startled by a knock on his driver’s side window.

For half a heartbeat, all he could see was a stylish blonde woman in black skirt and cherry blazer, looking worried. Then, it clicked. Looking suitably embarrassed, he unclipped the seatbelt, opened the door, and stepped out. “Hey, Val.”

She moved to give him room, but her expression didn’t change. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just . . . .”

He kicked himself, mentally. There really wasn’t a good way to finish that sentence when speaking to one of his senior team members.

But she clearly knew more than Len thought she did. “You’re worried about Ramsey, aren’t you?”

He frowned, concentrating. “How do you –”

“Everybody knows,” she said, cutting him off. “Ramsey’s not as smooth as he thinks he is . . . and Achilles has been a bit too open about his ambition.”

Angie hadn’t prepared him for this scenario, and Dutch was at a loss. Just fake it, she’d told him. Easy for her to say.

She was still looking at him, waiting for him to respond. But when he didn’t, her expression shifted from worry to something softer. “You don’t want to talk about it. That’s so you.”

“I really can’t,” he said apologetically. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” She reached out and touched his arm, a quiet reassurance. “We’re here for you, boss. All of us.”

“All of you?” He smiled to make it light.

She laughed. “Okay, some more than others. But even Achilles–”

This time he stopped her. “I know. Listen – thanks for the support. Really. But I’ll be fine.”

“He can’t fire you.”

“I know.” It suddenly occurred to him that Len would find a way to change the subject, fast, and fortunately he knew just how to do it. “Now – I’m going to need to go over the revised Avandale slide deck today. Is it ready?”

She held his eyes for a long moment before replying. “Okay, Dutch. I get the message. Just . . . . you know. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’m here.”

“Thanks. I mean it.” He popped his trunk and grabbed the messenger bag that held his laptop, then slung it over his shoulder. “Avandale?”

She fell into step beside him. “Legal’s just finishing their review. I’ll flip the deck to you when I get their green light.”

They went into the building, crossed the lobby, and waited with the usual crowd at the elevator bank.

A gray haired woman with worry lines across her brow greeted him with an absent, “Morning, Len.”

His ‘Len’ memory supplied the necessary details, “Darlene,” he responded, without engaging further. They knew each other, but she was in the finance office and they had little cause to interact.

They got in the elevator with a couple people he didn’t know. The doors almost closed when a dark hand slipped between them. The buffers bounced back upon encountering the firm arm sheathed in a crisp white shirt and gray wool pinstriped jacket, and the doors reopened.

Compact, well built, always poised, he popped into the elevator car and grinned an apology. “Sorry.”

Dutch tried to school his features into something Len might have managed. “Good of you to join us, Achilles.”

The younger man smiled. “Morning, Chief. Hey, Val. How was your weekend?”

She shrugged. “Restful, mostly. You?”

Achilles shook his head. “No rest for the wicked – I wanted to get a head start on the Concanon project, so I came in.”

It seemed like the elevator was going to stop at every floor. Someone getting on, juggling a stack of folders and a paper coffee cup. Two people getting off, heads together, talking about their weekend. Then another. All the while, Dutch just wanted to get to ‘his’ office and close the door. I can’t do this! I can’t! It’s like reading a script in a foreign language!

The elevator finally arrived at their floor and the three of them went their separate ways. Dutch heard Val’s heels clicking crisply on the parquet floor as she walked toward her office; his own tread was heavier, but more easily eclipsed by the usual office noises.

A door in a light blue-gray. A bronze nameplate. His office, for the past few years. Channeling Len, he dropped his messenger bag on a chair, hung his jacket behind the door, then closed it softly behind him.

Step one, done!

He had an hour before his meeting, and he needed to get his mind off of the flywheel of his own worries. So he sat down at the desk, slid the laptop into its dock, and swiveled the dual monitor into position. Seven emails already waiting for him. Perfect!

Two from clients. Dutch knew that Len would deal with them first, so he did. Fortunately, both were asking straightforward questions, and the answers were there, easily accessible to him. One involved questions about an increase in materials costs, easily explained by a new tariff that had gone into effect after the initial estimate. The other involved a permitting issue that Len had handled, quietly and efficiently, five days earlier.

A message from the President, describing an “exciting” new opportunity for the company, acquiring a downstate company that promised lots of “synergies.” Uh huh. That one took less than half a minute. Not my problem, Dutch thought, with a certain degree of relief and satisfaction.

Joyce sent an email, asking if he had any time later in the day to discuss her estimates for a new project in the south side of town. He checked his schedule, even though he already knew it, and responded with a time in the afternoon.

The last email, fortunately, was one that would take more time and require a lot more effort. Trevor had managed to get him the Front Street design specs a bit earlier than expected. He clicked open the document and started to go through it. The diagrams. The explanations. All the materials.

It was gibberish to him. The numbers might as well have been randomly generated. The drawings and diagrams weren’t much better. Dutch felt panic beginning to rise, and the prick of sweat at his armpits. But he kept going, hoping that something might make sense. It wasn’t enough to tap Len’s memories; he had to be able to use them to analyze a new set of facts.

He glanced over a set of three numbers. Nothing. Kept going. Another diagram. A narrative description. A marginal notation about . . .

Wait.

Dutch went back to the three numbers. Something wasn’t right, and he knew it wasn’t. He double-checked the middle number against a prior diagram. Went back to the materials list, and checked the manufacturer’s guaranteed tolerance. Nope.

Trevor had made a mistake, which wasn’t good. And, the mistake was a serious one; he’d need to have a talk with him about how that had happened. Nonetheless, Dutch felt a surge of enormous relief. Maybe, just maybe, he could actually do Len’s job for just long enough to arrange a graceful – and financially advantageous! – exit.

Just then, his phone made a distinct chime, which it continued to repeat until he pulled it out of his pocket and shut off the alarm he’d set before leaving the house. The phone’s screen showed the time in big, brightly lit sans serif font. 9:55 AM.

Showtime.

– To be continued.

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