A Hundred Lifetimes

Two

It was no ordinary house; I was sure of it. Along the street called Cherry Lane, it was the oldest and the largest—and considering the fact that most of the houses there were already at least four times larger than the one I currently lived in, that was no small feat. It honestly reminded me of the X-Mansion. You know, the one that Professor Xavier had that housed gifted young mutants? Yes, it was probably as large as that, although this one looked older, darker and creepier, and was more likely to have ghouls than heroes.

I had gotten on a bus late in the afternoon and traveled all the way across the city just to see it. I even went through the trouble of walking to the parallel street, just to look at it from the back as a precaution—to try to avoid anyone who might find the face I was wearing to be familiar. It seemed to be even more majestic than what I’d seen in my head. There must’ve been a dozen rooms at least, I thought, given the size of it, and if it weren’t for the lamps lit in the garden at the back, I would’ve thought that it was abandoned. I wondered if this woman used to live here once upon a time, and if she did, then I wondered if her grandchildren were the ones living in it now. Maybe the Grocery hoodie man was her grandchild?

As I stood there on the street, looking at the back of the mansion, I closed my eyes and tried my best to envision it. Why did it seem so familiar? Was it from my memory or hers? I had gone through lives for a hundred years, yet this was the first time I couldn’t distinguish between a body’s memory and mine. To no avail, I opened my eyes, and it landed on one of the rooms on the second floor. I don’t know if it was just my imagination or not, but I saw someone stand out there on the balcony who wasn’t there before.

It was too dark and I was too far to see, but it had seemed as if—well, as if he was looking right at me. I stared up at him, trying to figure out if it was just a trick of light, but there his silhouette stood, with his hands on the marble balustrade, and his head slightly bent down. At the distance between us, I was sure he couldn’t see my face as well, so I didn’t think much of it. After a minute or so, he ran his hands through his hair and hung his head down. When he did, I turned around and walked away.

The mansion at the end of Cherry Lane.

I had heard stories about it alongside the ones of how the street was named. Some say it was haunted, some say it was abandoned, but I didn’t have the heart to learn which for sure—not tonight anyway, I thought. Instead, I went back home to the one-bedroom, one-storey house that I had been renting for the past 5 years. I had bigger things to worry about. For example, I had to get forged papers for the new body I was inhibiting. It was easier back in the day, when all you really needed was money and a simple piece of paper to prove that you were a law-abiding citizen. Now, you need ID’S, social security numbers, and all that shebang. Not to mention, the security’s becoming more and more strict. With the new face that I was wearing, I knew I had to get those sooner than later. So, thinking that I’d take care of them the next morning, I confidently slept in the comfort of my own bed.

Things didn’t exactly turn out as planned, however, the next day. At 5:45 am, I woke—still in the routine of the old lady I previously was—and headed to the kitchen like the usual. This time, however, instead of drinking apple juice and waiting for the jogger to pass by, I intended to make my way to the 24/7 Grocery Store nearby. The clothes I had were old dresses that used to fit my old body. Now, they looked baggy on this slender woman’s physique, so I decided I should buy some new and more appropriate clothes.

By 5:50 am, I was out the door, stretched my new, young limbs, and headed towards the store, when I saw the usual jogger turn the corner at the other side of the street. He was wearing his typical attire. It was a Sunday then, so it was a black hoodie and pants, and over his head was the usual black cap. And yes, I did notice that his clothes were color-coded per day—look, I was an unemployed old lady with barely anything to do, okay?

Anyway, really, I should’ve figured out then, but I didn’t. I continued my pace down the sidewalk, and he ran past. I was guessing he would reach my house by exactly 5:55 as he had usually done the past few years.

There were probably around 20 steps between us when I suddenly heard someone call out “Clara!” from behind me—although it sounded more like a question. Out of mere curiosity, I turned around to look where it was coming from. The jogger had stopped in his tracks and was facing my direction.

His head was covered by his hood and cap, and I couldn’t really see his face, but as I continued to look at him, I felt like I had seen him before. I looked behind my back, just to see if he was calling someone further away. But there was no one else in the streets at that hour. He remained in place, not even catching his breath even though he was running at full speed just a second ago.

He called out again, although more unsure this time, “Clara?”

That’s when I realized who he looked like: the man in the grocery store back in Cherry Lane. The one who dropped the photo of the woman whose face I currently had.

Was it really him? I wondered, or just another tall man in a hoodie and a cap? I mean, that specific attire wasn’t that uncommon. And, for the Grocery man to be the same as the jogger, he would have had to run from this part of the city to Cherry Lane in full speed without stopping for a second, for him to reach the grocery by the time I arrived there by car. So, unless he was The Flash, or he had a car parked nearby somewhere, then the jogger was not the pale-faced Grocery man.

Given that and thinking that the jogger might have mistaken me for someone, I only turned back around and continued walking. Not a few seconds later, I subtly looked back and he was gone. I went on about my day as planned, and went to the 24/7 Grocery Store in search for clothes. Okay, before you say anything mean, let me just tell you that grocery store clothes aren’t that bad. They’re also cheaper, more convenient, and my previous old lady taste surely didn’t mind it.

This young woman’s taste, however, begged to differ. It seemed that she used to have an affinity for more expensive and fashionable clothes. Remembering the photograph I’d seen of her, that did make sense—her dress, jewelry, and the air of sophistication captured in that small, wallet-sized, black-and-white picture of her all screamed that she was a woman of class back in the day. And considering that there’s a chance she may be connected to that creepy mansion in Cherry Lane, it was completely understandable when I found myself dropping the grocery store clothes with disgust, and finding my way to the nearest branded boutique. Of course, being 6 in the morning, all of them were still closed, so I bought groceries for the mean time and found out that this lady had quite a sweet tooth—evidenced by the amount of chocolate bars and syrup I found myself hauling into the cart—and a love for bread. Mind you, I didn’t technically crave bread, but I wanted to bake some. Not eat, but bake!

I mean, it’s not the weirdest “urge” I’ve had for more than a century, but it sure was a hassle. Nevertheless, I bought the ingredients that felt right to me—thinking that the more I go along with this body’s urges, the more I’ll get a glimpse of her personality, which would hopefully show me her past and let me know for sure if I really am connected to her in some way.

So, there I was, entering the grocery store to buy clothes, but exiting with bags of flour, eggs and a disturbing amount of chocolate; all of which—I found as I staggered out of the automatic doors—were too much for this woman’s muscle strength to carry. Thankfully, just when a bag was about to topple over, someone came to my aid and caught the carton of milk and semi-sweet baking chocolate chips that fell out.

“Whoa there!” the girl exclaimed as she steadied the bags. “Do you need help, miss?”

I peeked from beside the bags and gave her a pleading look. “Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”

The girl, who looked like she must not have been more than 23 years old, and whose body was a good few inches shorter than my new one, had no trouble getting 4 bags from my arms and carrying them as if they weighed next to nothing. This left me with only one bag in hand, and even that was already enough to tire my biceps. I had to wonder if this new body was just not used to physical labor, or if this girl was some kind of superhuman.

If, I thought, she really were some sort of supernatural being, I figured she would be a fairy because of her small build, her cute button nose, light blue eyes, and the halves of butterfly wing ear cuffs attached around the helix of her ears. But because of the red streaks in her blond hair, the piercing on her eyebrow, and her expensive-looking black leather jacket and boots, she looked more like she was part of a motorcycle gang than Peter Pan’s group of friends.

“Where are you headed?” she asked with a friendly smile.

“Just down the street at the 8th,” I answered, then quickly followed it with a, “Oh, but I can get a cab or something. Don’t worry about me.”

“Nah, I got you! It’s near so I can help you out. Come on, my car’s just over here,” she said, already a few steps ahead before I could even protest. Honestly, the fact that she said car instead of motorcycle was enough to surprise me, but what really made my eyes widen was when she opened the trunk to a sleek, black, convertible Jaguar.

“This is your—oh wow!” I couldn’t help but say, as I gawked at it. It had been more than a few decades since I last bought a car, but boy, if you had seen my collection back in the day.

“Cool, right?” was all the girl said, before stuffing the grocery bags inside the small compartment. “Hop in!”

I was sure the excitement in my face was transparent, as I hopped into the passenger’s seat and strapped on my seat belt the very next second. She sat on the driver’s seat soon after, fondly watching as I lightly touched the expensive suedecloth covering the seats, as if I were petting a small, delicate baby. “You like it?” she asked, starting the engine.

I gave her a look, as if to say “duh”. “It’s beautiful! How did you even—your parents must be so rich!” It slipped from my mouth before I could think. Thankfully, the girl didn’t seem to mind it. She just shrugged and said, “This is technically a company car. My boss owns it, but I can use it whenever I want for whatever I want.”

“That,” I said with utmost respect, “is so cool. Your boss must be so rich and kind.”

She raised an eyebrow at me and gave a small chuckle, as if she found me amusing. But whatever it was she was thinking then, she didn’t let on. Instead, she only said, “House right ahead, on the 8th, right?” as she put on her round sunglasses, evidently making her the coolest person I knew in that lifetime. I nodded, admiring the vibe she was pulling off.

“I’m Mary, by the way,” she said with an elbow casually leaning on the window. Swiftly and effortlessly, she pulled the car out of the parking space.

“I’m,” I stopped, not knowing what this woman’s name was. “Shay,” I said.

“Mmm,” Mary hummed thoughtfully as she watched me from behind the shades of her sunglasses for a good few seconds, instead of looking at the road. “Okay,” she simply said, as if my name was up for debate in the first place. Shay was the name I had given myself a long time ago. It’s technically not for the bodies I inherit, but to give myself my own identity. If your body and a bit of your personality and memories changed every now and then, you, too, would need something to keep you grounded. Also, don’t laugh, but I got the name as a shortened version of “Shapeshifter.”

I know, not very original, is it?

“So, are you from this part of the city?” I asked a bit awkwardly. It had been quite some time since I last hung out with the younger generations. For my past few lives, I made the conscious decision to choose bodies of elderly people. I had found that even though it was quite a hassle to move with old, weakened joints, it offered a more peaceful life. This time, I’m guessing, this new form of mine was probably around 25 or 26 years old, which was approximately 40 years younger than what I’d prefer. Although, I must admit, being able to move without my hips aching was refreshing.

“No, not really,” she answered, thankfully looking at the road now. “I’m from Cherry Lane, around the other side. I live in my boss’s place. I’m sure you know it.””

That explains the car, I thought. I wondered which of the houses there was her boss’s. It was probably one of those larger ones.

“I just came here to… There’s something I had to see with my own two eyes, because Mr. D, my boss, was starting to be convinced that he’s going crazy.” When she said the last part, she glanced at me again and flashed a bright smile, blowing right past a stop sign. I wondered what her job was—a chef? An au pair? With the way she was driving, I hoped she was not the driver.

“How about you?” she asked. I tilted my head towards her. “What about me?”

“Are you from here?”

I sat back and tried to relax in my seat, even though it was a bit difficult to do so, given the nature of her driving. “I’ve been here for around 5 years now,” I answered honestly, clutching onto the seatbelt as Mary ran a red light. I could feel my chest start to loosen, the closer we got to my house.

“Really?” she asked, raising her sunglasses to squint at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen your face around here before.”

Right, because I had an old lady’s face back then. “Oh, I uh, grew out my hair,” I said with a nervous laugh. I grew out my hair? What a lame excuse! Quickly, I added, “I also rarely go to Cherry Lane, so there’s a chance we haven’t run into each other until now.”

“Mmm,” she just hummed again, then put her sunglasses back on as the car finally halted into a stop in front of my house. Oh, the relief I felt that second. “I guess I would have remembered you if I saw you outside,” she said. I learned what she meant when her eyes moved momentarily to my clothes, reminding me that I had a body of a young woman in a floral dress 3 sizes larger, an old cardigan and dress shoes. I must have looked like I was doing some sort of cosplay.

“It’s, um, laundry day,” I stammered, “thanks for helping me with my groceries, Mary.” I unbuckled myself and stepped out onto the pavement. Mary parked the car and opened the trunk, saying, “No worries. Let me carry these in,” as she lifted all the bags at once with barely any hint of difficulty. Impressed, I only hurried to open the door to let her in.

“This your place?” she asked, gently setting the bags on top of the counter. She proceeded to look around, craning her neck to see the other rooms as she slowly walked back to the door. “Smells like old people,” she said with a scrunch of the nose, making my eyebrows shoot up at her bluntness.

“It’s probably because my grandmother visited last night,” I lied, smiling sheepishly.

“Ah, I see. Do you live alone? I don’t see pictures of family, or even yourself.” Mary was looking at the painting hanging by the wall now, next to the door.

“Yes, I live alone,” I answered. “I’m not much of a sentimental person. In fact, you might be the first friend I’ve made in this lifetime,” I said with a chuckle. I meant that, of course, as an inside joke, but with Mary not knowing what I was, I was pretty sure it flew right over her head. I was also quite certain that she was not one to appreciate goofy jokes—and it showed on her face as she looked at me pityingly. She turned back to the painting and raised the sunglasses on top of her head, which pushed the hair away from her face and let me get a clearer view of the small, silver ring on her left eyebrow. That must have hurt, I thought.

“Montmarte by Pissarro,” she muttered. My face lit up as I excitedly nodded my head.

“Boulevard Montmarte in Spring, yes!” I exclaimed, awed that she recognized the painting. “Do you like Pissarro as well?”

“My boss does,” she shrugged. “He likes to… collect things. Anyway, since you live alone and all that, do you want to have dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?” I asked incredulously as she stepped out the door. “Really?”

“Yeah, it’s no big deal. I can pick you up by 6 then you can go look at all of Mr. D’s other cars. He also has a crap ton of other paintings in his mansion,” she said not to gloat, but more like she was tired of it.

“Can I really?” I asked with hopeful eyes. It had been a while since I last went over someone’s house. I felt like I owed it to my new, younger self to at least try and socialize—especially with someone who has access to cool cars and old paintings.

Mary gave a half-smile as she hopped into the car and put her sunglasses back on. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, speeding away haphazardly like she did before. I realized only after she had left that I didn’t get the chance to ask her where exactly we would be having dinner. In hindsight, I really should’ve asked, so then I wouldn’t have found myself staring up at the Murder Mansion at the end of Cherry Lane.