The Interloper

Written By: Piper Fitzgerald

Dear Louisa,

I have called one of the nurses to bring me a pen and paper. It’s obvious you have no plans to visit me, and I won’t bother with the phone, which never ceases to ring when I call you, so I’m forced to appeal to you via letter. I think it would be more compelling to make you look into my eyes and see the truth. This dreadful experience has illuminated three things for me. First, souls are not fixed to the body; second, children are preternaturally gifted at spotting the paranormal; and third, eyes really are the window to the soul. Do you remember the first time you looked in my eyes? You knew instantly I wasn’t your mother.

One minute I was in my graduate poetry workshop, scribbling the phrase “cowboy cough” in my notebook instead of paying attention. I was very insecure about my limitations as a poet and only in the class because it was required. That was the last thing I remembered before my vision went blurry. I blinked it away, and when everything was crystal clear again, I saw I had been transported to a grocery store called Schnucks—I’d later learn it was an upscale grocery store local to Missouri. At the time, I thought I was dreaming because I’d never heard of it. The dream world felt confirmed when I noticed you tugging at my sleeve saying, “Mommy, mommy, you’re hurt.” 

My nose was running. I licked my lips, and it was blood, not snot, so I reached into the oversized handbag on my arm and pulled out a tissue. Once I’d stopped the bleeding, I looked around at the cashier and the other customers. 

An older woman asked me accusatorily, “Aren’t you going to comfort your kid?”

I looked down at you again, and that was when you really saw me. You began to cry harder and scream, “That’s not my mom!” and I was saying, “I don’t have any kids.”

No amount of screaming helped me escape the dream. I was never asleep to begin with. I won’t recap any of the humiliation and horrors of that moment and the chain reaction that followed. The police, the hospitalization. You likely remember it all in even greater detail than I do. You weren’t sedated, but you were, unfortunately, brainwashed.

You were told that your mother was sick, and then when you were older the idea was reinforced that I had suffered some kind of psychotic break. Amnesia, they said! But maybe you remember it? In that single moment of eye contact we had in the grocery store, before anyone could interfere with your childlike instincts, which were unbound by the rules of “logic” or “possibility,” you knew that I was not Angela, a 35-year-old wife and mother. Your screaming in fear makes perfect sense. I was wearing the skin of your mother, but I was someone else entirely. I’m writing this letter to tell you to trust your instincts. In this day in age, everyone is seeking validation for their trauma. I’m here to validate you. 

I should properly introduce myself to you for the sake of complete transparency. My real name is Piper, not Angela. Somehow my soul split into two and bumped your mother, Angela’s soul, out of her body. At the time of this event, I was a 23-year-old graduate student in a creative writing program. I had a boyfriend who I was seeing casually, and I had sworn off having children in favor of a completely focused writing career. After all these years, I’ve given up trying to guess how this mental division happened. Whatever curse was placed on me or on your mother was out of my control to lift. 

You must be wondering then why I bothered sticking around? If I was someone else, why didn’t I abandon you and your father? For a long time, I told myself it was the noble thing to do. I should keep Angela’s life and body warm for her until the time came for me to go back where I belong. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately (there’s nothing to do in this retirement home but think) and I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. It relates to that time we don’t speak of. The time where I did attempt to abandon you and your father. After I was released from the hospital and given access to my phone again, I looked myself up (Piper) and found that I hadn’t be transported to another universe. I was still living on the same plane of existence as my body. It gave me a sliver of hope. Maybe your mother’s, consciousness was inside my body and we’d been switched. With one of the credit cards in Angela’s wallet, I booked a flight to Roanoke, VA. When the plane landed, I rented a car and drove straight to the university where I was working on my thesis when the switch had occurred. 

Before I started looking for myself, I went to my favorite coffee shop just to feel something familiar. I ordered a cup of my favorite brew, banana cream infused coffee, and as I scanned the place, happy to be somewhere I recognized, I saw myself, Piper, sitting at a table alone. The only sense of urgency behind her eyes seemed like completely banal panic which stemmed from writing a novel. I hadn’t thought of my novel at all since I’d become Angela. I didn’t imagine that it would continue being written without me. My heart ached with rage. I thought if two people were suffering equally from this event, it would at least feel somewhat equitable. The fact that there were two of me now and one was carrying on like normal was just unfair. 

I approached Piper with my coffee and said, “Excuse me? Can I sit with you?”

Piper looked around the café skeptically, and when she saw that all the other tables were taken, she said, “Sure.”

“What are you working on,” I asked her. 

“I’m writing a novel for my master’s thesis,”

My canned answer for strangers. No elaboration, no details. It was me! 

“What’s the novel about?” 

She sat up straighter and said, “It’s a novel about a young woman who goes to visit her family on a remote island.”

“And the vampire?” I asked. I’d been debating for an entire year whether or not a vampire should appear in the story. A flash of alarm crossed Piper’s eyes. How can I explain the startling clarity of seeing yourself through another person’s eyes? Pictures don’t do it justice. I wasn’t anything like I had imagined myself to be, and reflections skew our perceptions of reality. They flip and flatten. I was much uglier and much prettier all at the same time. I wondered what Piper thought of Angela’s face. Did I wear a recognizable expression? It had been officially four months since the split. Piper’s hair was a bit longer, and it was winter, so her summer tan had faded into a pasty complexion underneath her wind burnt cheeks. 

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” Piper asked me.

“No. Sort of. I’ve heard a lot about you.” I lied and said I was the friend of someone else in the master’s program.

“Oh, well, sorry to disappoint. I’ve decided against the vampire,” Piper said with our crooked smile. 

I scoffed. “That’s a horrible mistake. You need to stay true to your vision!” I said, suddenly irate. 

“No offense, but it’s really none of your business.” That was bold of her. My normal approach to annoying advice was to nod politely or crack a joke. In the three months I’d been outside of my body, Piper had changed without me knowing it. If we stayed apart too long, I would only recognize my life in the abstract, I feared.

I was worried that Piper wouldn’t talk to me anymore, so I collected myself.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to come off so aggressive. I was just charmed by the idea when I heard about it.”

She took a swig of her coffee. I could tell we were drinking the same thing. Some parts of me hadn’t diverged. The thing I missed most was my body and the sense of ownership I had over it. I admit that it is a privileged feeling to have an unquestioning assertion of autonomy. 

Angela’s body has been a fine enough vessel, but there are great pains that I’ve never come to terms with. The gluten allergy, for example. I love pasta, and in my life as Piper, I made fettucine alfredo for myself constantly. As Angela, I also lost my ability to be active. No more jumping. Weak ankles. And her immune system is so weak that that at times I feared she might have some kind of autoimmune disorder. As Piper, I had my father’s bone structure and unreliable knees. I had my mother’s eyes and nose and teeth. As Angela, I could not identify the origins of my being, and it wounded me. I noticed that she had olive skin. She lived and grew up in rural Missouri in a predominately white community, but that didn’t mean anything. I saw pictures of Angela’s parents, both presumably white people, but perhaps there was something else in her linage, and by extension, your lineage, Louisa. I wish I had answers for you on that front. Maybe you should take one of those DNA tests to find out something about yourself. I never did, not because I wasn’t curious, but because it felt invasive. Besides the necessary bodily functions, I never did anything I felt I’d need Angela’s consent for. 

That includes what you think; I’ve been so chaste these past 50 years, I should have joined a convent. And not for lack of want, either. Your father was an attractive man and hopelessly devoted to your mother, but certain bodily pleasures didn’t belong to me. Things aroused me, like the sound of your father clicking on the bedside lamp, but when I thought about it, it was only the ghost of Angela inhabiting me. It was muscle memory. Out of respect for her autonomy, I didn’t act on any of that latent desire. When you caught him “cheating,” and told him off, I felt extremely endeared to you. He wanted to stay with Angela out of loyalty, and I wanted to stay with him too out of convenience. It took a lot of convincing for him to open the marriage. I had to fake a medical condition to get him to understand that sex was off the table. When you caught him with someone else, we decided it was easier for 13-year-old you to believe in black and white concepts of faithfulness instead of explaining our open relationship. I retrospect, I regret that decision (among many). You should forgive him for that in case you’re holding a grudge. I know you don’t want to hear these things. I remember overhearing your friend expressing jealousy of having a mom who is so “radically honest” and you launched into a diatribe on how I was just oversharing. It is probably the case that I was not honest enough. I was complicit in your brainwashing. I digress.

In the coffee shop, Piper and I stared across the table at each other. I took a leap of faith. Who could I trust if not myself?

“I’m you.”

“From the future?” she asked in a sarcastic tone. Asshole. If I ever got back into my body, I vowed I’d be nicer to strangers.

“No, I’m you right now.” I explained the split of our consciousness and what had led me to track her down in this café.

She raised her left eyebrow. I didn’t realize I was so cartoonish with my expressions. She said, “You should be able to tell me something only I would know,” and waited for me to deliver.
  I thought hard. Not that Piper would be able to help me, but I needed an ally. Finally, I landed on something so embarrassing I can’t recount it. It should remain my and Piper’s secret. What’s more important was her reaction.

“Get out of here!” she yelled at me. I was so startled, I jumped up and bumped the table with my legs, and my cup of coffee tipped over and flooded her laptop. She looked down at it with horror and began to weep.

“My novel… it’s gone,” we both whimpered in unison. She turned to me with her jaw clenched and her eyes squinting and wet.

“Leave! Leave me alone!” I bolted out of there and back to my hotel. 

I stayed in Roanoke for three months until all of Angela’s credit cards were maxed out. In that time, I did much thinking like I have done in this nursing home, but unlike here, I arrived at much more ruinous and consequential conclusions. Every day I wandered the streets of Roanoke, and as I passed shop windows, I would either stare at my reflection or shield my eyes from it depending on my mood. The desire to stalk Piper surfaced often, but I recognized it as a sort of vanity. Obsession with the self who was outside of my control. I ignored all communication from your father during that interval until I was completely out of money and lines of credit.

One message stood out among his hundreds. Louisa needs you. 

I will admit that, selfishly, consideration for you or your father’s feelings was rare. The image of you crying vaguely floated around in my mind while I binged room service and drank myself to sleep each night. When I saw that message from your father, it clicked. You didn’t just need me. We needed each other.

I caught a flight back to Missouri. No adult on Earth would believe me, not even myself (Piper). That much was clear. The limits of our imaginations can only be stretched so far before they snap. Children are more limber. I sat at the Lambert International baggage claim and waited for what was next. Your father arrived and screamed at me. He said I needed to shape up or leave, and if I left, he’d file for custody. I couldn’t have that. I needed to keep you close to me, and to a certain degree I thought it would be best for you too. Somehow the body who’d grown you and fed you from her own breasts was not your mother. Two separate versions of me existed with the same memories but different futures. Our trauma had the same origin. 

I unlocked what was once Angela’s phone (thank God for face ID) and began studying her life through photos, text messages, emails, social media likes, and search history, so that I could play the part and wait patiently for the day when we could both honestly acknowledge the truth. I’m nearing the end of my (Angela’s?) life in this nursing home, and I still wait for that day. 

I was never perfect at the performance. Even though I avoided searching up things about Piper, she still crept in, and when she did, I fell down the well of depression. You’ve got to understand that writing meant everything to me. I had sacrificed relationships, sleep, sanity for my writing. The sleepless nights paid off: Piper is famous. Maybe you remember reading one of her novels? You came home with her debut checked out from the library, I think when you were about 16 or so, and every so often you would look up at me suspiciously. When you went to sleep, I snuck downstairs and read the whole thing in one night. The bitch stole my story. She wrote a full book about her consciousness being copy and pasted into a different body. I realized why you looked at me while reading it. She basically copied Angela’s description verbatim. There were key points she guessed wrong. For one thing, in the story she wrote, she made you a son instead of a daughter, which I felt was a terrible mistake. There are things about a mother-daughter relationship that make our situation much more painful. I sincerely think if you were a boy, you wouldn’t have noticed that day in the grocery store. I think she included that detail because she herself ended up having a son, and I imagine she felt intense disillusionment in her role as a mother. Parenting was something I’d sworn off as I mentioned earlier. In an interview she thanked me: 

“To the woman who destroyed my computer and inspired me to write a much better novel, I owe you big time.”

You bet she does. I tried to write as Angela, but nothing came to me. It was as if my calling was unique to my situation, not my own brilliant mind or soul. That was a terrible shock to my ego, and I avoided writing so that I could avoid thinking so that I could avoid slipping into an inescapable melancholy. When I read that book, I couldn’t help sliding down that muddy bank and sinking, mourning the loss of the career I had always dreamt of. Your father threatened to hospitalize me again and I didn’t want that. I didn’t bother with AA. It wouldn’t have done much good if I couldn’t be honest. It was a burden I bore alone, but I managed to quit drinking. Luckily for me, Angela does not carry the addictive gene. Again, I digress.

When you had your first heartbreak, that was the first time I tried to reveal my real self to you. You came home crying about a boy liking your best friend and not you. You must have been in a lot of pain by the age of 15 because I sensed you retreating away from me and only maintained our relationship out of some familial duty, which I empathized with. Maybe the brainwashing had made you feel the need to play a role, too. But that time when you were crying, I saw an opportunity and you briefly let me in. I sat on the edge of your bed and patted your arm while you wept and told me all about how your friend had the advantages. She and the boy were in the same Bible study group. 

“I’m going to get baptized. He’ll want me then,” you said in your sinus-clogged voice. I laughed at your mathematical conception of desire.

“You can’t force yourself to be someone you’re not,” I sighed.

“Will you tell me about your first love?” you asked me so earnestly that I decided it was my chance to share something true. 

“When I was 13, I thought I was in love with a boy named Ryan. He was the second fastest in my class and the best at kickball. He had curly hair, and I doubt he knew my name. I sat behind him in math and science and would ask to borrow a pencil from him every single day. One day he got annoyed and told me to stop asking, and the subtext was that he got the message loud and clear. Everyone laughed at me and my Hello Kitty backpack that was full of pencils—”

“Stop. Just stop it,” I remember you saying. You sat up and asked me to leave. When I asked why, you called me a liar.

“A liar? What do you mean?” I asked, backing away.

“You were homeschooled!” you screamed before slamming the bedroom door in my face. I left you alone then, and that was my mistake. I should have barged in and begged you to recognize me or left you for good. But I wavered. Dead mothers is a common mystery. If you had thought Angela was dead in the way everyone understands death, you’d have others to commiserate with. Maybe then the brainwashing would have worked properly. Instead, every day of your adolescence you watched me do a poor imitation of Angela because I was too cowardly to let you go, my last remaining symbol of hope. For that, I’m infinitely sorry.

You might feel like you’ve moved on with your life, but I can’t believe that. People who have moved on don’t put their mothers in nursing homes and then move halfway across the country. The only way to move on, for both of us, is to come look me in the eye one more time. Tell me you see me in here. Piper is dead. Car accident. I had a premonition about dying in a car accident as a teenager and it came true. I never guessed that Angela would outlive her. There’s no hope of going back into my old body now, but we can at least take comfort in acknowledging the truth together. Come here, Louisa. Please.

Sincerely, 

Piper/Angela

Piper Fitzgerald is an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech. Her writing has appeared in The Meadow, Helix, and The Kiln Project.