Could It Be Magic?

‘The effect of lightning on the human brain is similar to that of patients who have undergone electroconvulsive therapy,’ he continued. ‘As I said, the vast majority who survive a lightning strike are confused and suffer anterograde amnesia for several days after the strike. Loss of consciousness for varying periods is common, as are neurological complications and difficulty with memory.’

He looked at me intensely as if to check I was keeping up with him, then he pressed on more boldly. ‘You have to understand that the cognitive and neurological damage caused to the brain by a lightning strike to the skull is similar to a blunt injury trauma.’

‘Like being hit over the head?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Exactly. You were a very lucky woman, Lauren. According to your children, the lightning hit you directly on the head, back and shoulders. Your hair, I hear, stood on end and actually caught fire, and there are burns consistent with this.’

‘The burns aren’t deep, though, considering how hot you said lightning can get?’ I probed, twisting the unaccustomed wedding band on my finger as I spoke. ‘Would you have expected the burns to be worse?’

Dr Shakir smiled. ‘You are an inquisitive woman, Lauren, but I will do my best to answer you. Yes, I was surprised there wasn’t more burning to your head, but in the case of your shoulder, then no, I wasn’t surprised. Skin is the primary resistor to the flow of current into the body, causing the appearance of surface burns, but preventing deep tissue damage. With lightning the current is present in the body for a very brief time, causing short-circuiting of the body’s electrical systems: cardiac arrest such as in your case, vascular spasm, neurological damage and autonomic instability.’

‘So there was nothing about my case that was out of the ordinary?’

He paused and broke eye contact before shaking his head. ‘No.’

I stared at him, realising that what he had been holding back all along was the very thing I had been desperate to discover. Had Lauren’s injuries actually killed her? From what he had told me, and from the fascinated way he looked at me, I got the very clear impression that all Dr Shakir’s medical experience indicated that I should not be here. My living, breathing presence belied his gut instincts, confounding his diagnosis. No wonder he wouldn’t look me in the eye, I thought grimly.

I remembered suddenly what Dr Chin had said about possible deafness and the chance of developing cataracts at a later date, and put the question to Dr Shakir.

‘You are remarkably well-informed about your condition,’ he said.

He seemed happier now we were back in safe medical territory. I watched as his shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘This is accurate information regarding high-voltage injury, but I have checked you thoroughly, and you appear at present to be in the clear.’ He paused. ‘In fact, when we have had the results of the MRI scan, providing everything is normal you can probably go home.’

‘Today?’ I asked him apprehensively.

He shook his head. ‘I will come and see you again tomorrow. If your scan results are available then, and you are feeling generally in good health, we may be able to let you out tomorrow. If you are still experiencing memory loss at that time we could arrange an outpatient appointment for you at our psychiatric unit. Meanwhile, I suggest you get some rest. I’m sure it will be very difficult for you to get much peace and quiet once you are home.’

Grant came to visit me alone that evening. He said the children were exhausted after their day out. He’d put them to bed early and asked a neighbour to come in and keep an eye on them for an hour or two.

‘How is Teddy bearing up?’ I asked him, partly to show an interest in his children’s well-being and partly because, despite my denials, I was deeply affected by Teddy’s situation.

Grant shrugged. ‘He’s upset, obviously. He doesn’t really understand what’s happening, Lauren. He keeps crying for his mummy.’

I avoided his gaze, thinking that Teddy seemed to have a better grasp of what was happening than anyone else did.

‘Have they said when you can come home?’ he asked.

‘Maybe tomorrow,’ I said, trying to keep my mind off the hideous possibility of such a thing.

Home. Another unknown step into the dark. A place where, unless I woke up as Jessica again soon, I would be expected to play a role I would have to guess at as I went along; to live a life that simply wasn’t mine. I wanted to go home all right, but I wanted to continue with my own life, to be in control of my own destiny. I thought of my mother’s comments about not trying to be Superwoman and bit back tears of frustration. I had always been my own woman—fiercely independent and determined to do things my own way. My life might not have been perfect, but it had been mine. And now I found I wasn’t in control of anything at all. I was being swept along; a mere passenger on a roller-coaster ride that was more terrifying than anything the children could possibly have experienced at Chessington.

I yawned widely, only just covering my mouth at the last minute. Sleep was what I needed now and what I hoped was the key to the door between these two worlds.

Grant got the message. I thought how tired he looked himself as he kissed me lightly on the forehead before heading for the door.

‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ he whispered as he closed the door behind him. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight, Grant.’ I sank back against the pillows, realising with a pang of guilt as I watched his retreating back that I was fervently hoping it might be the last I ever saw of him.

Chapter Four (#u976bc18f-9e0e-5d0b-b754-cd6d17335370)

When I awoke snuggled in the double duvet in my own bed, the feeling of relief was immense. I still wasn’t convinced that my experience as Lauren was simply a normal dream, there were too many abnormalities, too many questions left unanswered, but I was awake now, I was Jessica again; my body was feeling physically rested and my mind relaxed as if I had merely been deeply asleep and dreaming. Yawning, I luxuriated in the knowledge that I was home and safe in my own world.

I sat up and hugged Frankie tightly. ‘You will never believe where I’ve been,’ I told her as I slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the high window. I flung open the curtains to another glorious autumn day. ‘What would you say if I told you I was somewhere else all night while you were lying here keeping my feet warm for me?’

Frankie put her head on one side and gave a short bark.

I ran myself a hot bath, and while it was running I gave Frankie her breakfast of dry mix, put the kettle on for my morning tea, and went to the front door in my pyjamas to look for the post.

Nothing but circulars. It should have been sad really that few people ever wrote to me. The only mail I received on a regular basis usually came in brown envelopes, with the exception of occasional airmail letters from my brother Simon, but I supposed that was because I was what some people might call a bit of a loner. I smiled to myself as I sifted through the junk mail. I preferred my own character description of self-sufficient, work-orientated and perhaps a little wary of commitment. But either way, today I didn’t care. All that mattered was that I was here, back in my own body where I should be, flaws and all.

As I lay in the bath looking down at my youthful body, I smiled at the lack of stretch marks and bruises, the dark body hair in all the right places. I wondered if blondes had to shave their legs. I hoped I would never have to find out.

The thought sobered me, robbing me of the joy I’d been experiencing since I’d woken up. Grabbing the soap, I worked it to a rich lather and began to wash vigorously. I might be home now, but the nightmare clung, refusing to simply rinse away with the soapsuds. At some point this body would need to sleep, and while it was resting, the nightmare might return. I had only dreamed the dream twice, but the fact that the second dream had seemed to continue on so smoothly from the first was dreadfully worrying. Suppose I found myself struggling with that other life again?

Lying back in the warm water, my mind dwelled on the possibilities. Dream or not, while I was being Lauren, her life had seemed as real to me as my own.

And what if I had to experience going home to that family? The thought brought a rush of terror. Yesterday, when I’d been dozing, I’d been aware of Lauren having her drip disconnected. Did that mean that every time I slept, I ran the risk of returning to continue the dream? If that were the case then I’d be constantly on the go, flitting from dream to reality without respite.

Watching a tiny bubble drift up to the ceiling, I was filled with the dreadful certainty that the real Lauren was dead. After listening to Dr Shakir’s account of her injuries I was sure he felt Lauren should be dead or irreparably brain-damaged, despite his outward claim that her quick recovery was nothing unusual.

The thought that the children’s mother had probably died not only shook me to the core, it brought a lump to my throat. She had been a stranger to me, of course, and possibly a figment of my imagination, but in my dream I had been there in her body and I felt an overwhelming grief for this woman I had never known. My heart went out to her husband and children. They had lost the wife and mother they loved, and didn’t even know they should be mourning her loss.

My lips trembled and I pressed them firmly together. There was nothing I could do for her now, I told myself. The best I could do while I was there was to try to keep her body from further harm, and I found myself wondering what another chapter of the dream might hold for me. Meanwhile, I rather guiltily thanked my lucky stars it had been Lauren who had died and not me.

I lay back in the warm water for a moment or two, pondering why I had survived and Lauren obviously hadn’t, when the whole situation suddenly seemed absurd. I sat up abruptly, slopping water over the edges of the bath onto the green bathroom carpet. What was I doing, allowing this incredible situation to take over my thoughts? I asked myself angrily. Why was I accepting this living nightmare as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence? I knew that what was frightening me most was the possibility that it wasn’t a dream at all. Not in the normal sense, anyway. And if it wasn’t a dream, then what?

Sitting in the rapidly cooling water, I gazed into space, wondering. What other explanation could there be, other than the shadowy fear that when I was awake I was Jessica, and when Lauren was awake I was her…

I groaned loudly, putting my hands over my ears as if I could shut out the clamouring of my own thoughts, thoughts which sounded as if they had come straight from watching the sci-fi channel on Sky TV. I had to believe that the dream was over now, or I’d be afraid to sleep ever again.

Frankie had heard the groan and was whining at the bathroom door.

‘It’s okay, Frankie,’ I called through the door. ‘I’ll be out in a mo.’

Still sitting up, I shampooed my dark brown hair, thanking God for the lack of burns to my scalp as I massaged it to a lather. The lightning hadn’t hit my head at all.

Perhaps, I thought, as I ran Saturday’s events through my mind for the umpteenth time, my lucky escape hadn’t been solely due to the protection afforded by my thick sheepskin coat. It might well have been partly due to the way I’d been hunched forward against the downpour, ready to dive into the passenger seat of Dan’s car, so that the force had missed my head.

Ducking under the water to wash the shampoo away and then wriggling upright, I stepped out of the bath, squeezed the excess water out of my hair, and wrapped myself in my towelling bathrobe. I glanced at the clock. Damn! I’d been so caught up in what was happening to me, I was going to be late for work if I didn’t hurry. I dressed quickly, shoved a piece of crispbread into my mouth and ran up the steps with Frankie at my heels. We walked for ten minutes while Frankie sniffed at lampposts and did her business, which I picked up in my trowel and deposited into a doggy-bin, then headed home at a brisk trot.

‘See you at lunchtime,’ I called as I closed the door to my flat behind me and, biting a chunk out of a juicy red apple, headed out onto the pavement for the ten-minute walk to work.

The legal firm I worked for, Chisleworth & Partners, was housed in a drab-looking building in a side road off the high street. I took the steps two at a time, and arrived at my desk about half a minute before my boss, Stephen Armitage.

Stephen was a good-looking man in his early forties and had been my boss for the last ten years, ever since I’d left secretarial college at the age of eighteen. He’d overseen most of my training to become a legal secretary and had encouraged me to work towards gaining extra qualifications in the legal field, taking me under his wing as his assistant and protégé. Stephen had been kind and attentive and we spent much of our working hours together, sometimes working late into the night when the office was quiet and we were gathering documents and files for court.

As I shrugged out of my coat in the narrow confines of the outer office, I was reminded of how our close working proximity had led one night to a gentle coming together, and while I had never been totally sure of my feelings for him, a relationship with him had seemed easy and inevitable. It had seemed sensible after a while to move into a flat he owned, though I retained my independence by paying him rent and splitting our everyday expenses. Although we had both known I wasn’t ready or willing to settle down properly, we had remained lovers for nearly six years.