Free Once More With Feeling by Emilie Richards Page B

finger, and then she
realized what was wrong. There was no white space where her wedding
ring had been. She had worn the wide gold band for twenty-five
years without once removing it, but there was no tan line above it.
The space where her rings should have been was exactly the same
color as the rest of her.
    This was not her hand.
    She almost laughed at her own absurd
conclusion. Whose hand could it be? Had they grafted a new one
after the accident? Was she some sort of female monster for a
modern Dr. Frankenstein to assemble? If so, he had stolen legs from
a Rockette and hands from a model, and she should be nothing but
grateful. Maybe Owen would be so intrigued he would forget Anna and
remember to come home every night.
    The hand in question stole its way to her
abdomen. She was as flat and taut as she had been before pregnancy.
She moved it slowly higher to her breasts. They were firm, young
somehow, and the nipples seemed larger than she'd remembered. She
examined her breasts every month like clockwork. She knew how they
felt. They didn't feel like this.
    Her hand stole higher, first to her
shoulder, then to the side of her neck. She expected to feel her
hair, but there was nothing there. She wondered if someone had cut
it off or worse, shaved her head. She was too old for that look and
too young to have lost all her vanity.
    Just over her ear she felt the soft brush of
hair against her fingertips. They had cut it, then. She wondered
who had done it? The ends curved over her fingers, and a deeper
foray indicated it was probably cut into layers. It felt
surprisingly thick and almost coarse in texture. Not like her hair
at all. She had always been afraid to try a short cut because her
hair was wispy and fine.
    She moaned. The news was good, but she was
increasingly panicked. She had survived in one piece, and she was
able to think and even to move again. But nothing felt as it
should. No matter how many times she tried to tell herself that
this isolation from her own body was to be expected, she couldn't
make herself believe it. She had not discovered one familiar thing
about herself, except the fact that she was undeniably female.
    She needed proof. Just one bit of proof was
all it would take. Then she could go back to sleep and forget all
this.
    A birthmark. She was surprised the solution
was so simple. She had a birthmark on the inside of one arm. It
wasn't particularly large, and it had faded with the years, but as
a child she had been so self-conscious about it that she had
refused to wear short sleeves. She was wearing short sleeves now,
and it would be a small matter to raise her arm and
investigate.
    She rested first and gathered her strength.
She remembered the first time Owen had discovered the birthmark,
and the romantic fuss he had made over it. She had never known that
a man's lips in that very spot could reduce a woman to putty. But
in the early years of their marriage, Owen had reduced her to putty
frequently.
    She lifted her arm at last. The sleeve of
her gown clung and she swatted at it with the opposite hand until
it fell back toward her shoulder. She stared at her arm, her thin,
firm arm, unmarred by any blemish.
    "No!"
    She turned to her other side, praying she
had made a mistake. She had chosen the wrong arm. That was all.
This sleeve fell away without fuss and she stared at another
expanse of unblemished flesh.
    "No!"
    The door opened with a hiss. "Hey, what's
going on here?"
    Elisabeth recognized Perry's voice, but she
was too distraught to respond. She moaned and wrapped her arms over
her chest. "No . . ."
    Perry came into view. "Are you in pain? Do
you need a shot? It's almost time."
    "No . . ."
    "You poor baby doll. What can Perry do for
you? Do you want me to get the doctor?"
    "Please . . ." Elisabeth was sobbing, great
gulping sobs that seemed to echo through her head.
    "Now, I'll be right back. He's still on the
floor. Don't you go anywhere, candy cane. You stay right
there."
    The door hissed