Page 56 of Switch!
“Will he be okay?” I ask.
“If I was a betting man, and I am, I’d put at least five hundred bucks on him being just fine.” Stan gestures to the exit with his head. “We’ve done our good deed. Now it’s time for the punishment.”
I don’t move.
“He’ll be okay,” Stan reiterates. “We’ve done all we can. Come on. We’ll get the damn reports filed, and then I’m calling Shirley to let her know you’ll be going home early. Nobody expects you to keep working after your first time.”
A visual flash of Caleb’s body on the street shocks me so much that I lose control and withdraw into the back of Jesse’s mind. I barely pay attention as he returns to the ambulance. Once there, he and Stan pass a laptop back and forth, filling out forms.
“My first was rough too,” Stan says.
“What was it like?” Jesse asks.
“Suicide.” Stan swallows and shakes his head. “The details don’t matter, but she was young and… Be glad the parents weren’t there tonight.”
I’m tempted to take control of the body again so I can plug my ears. I hadn’t yet thought about Caleb’s parents and how they will react. The thought of his mother makes my heart break.
“You’re not making me feel better,” Jesse complains.
“Sorry.” Stan rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m no good at this sort of thing. Listen, when Shirley offers you the counseling sessions, take her up on it. Don’t be stupid like me and try to be a tough guy. After not getting any sleep for two weeks, my wife made me go. It really helped.”
“Okay.”
“For now—” Stan turns the key in the ignition. “—let’s get you home. Neither one of us has to work tomorrow. Use the time to sort through what you’re feeling.”
He keeps talking, offering advice. I tune him out, unable to deal with it right now. Jesse must be doing the same because he doesn’t say anything in response. When he finally does speak, he interrupts Stan mid-sentence.
“Pull over,” he says. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”
“No problem,” Stan says, hitting the turn signal. “Uh… Oh.”
He’s noticed the bar. That’s the direction Jesse is staring, but he tears his attention away to say, “I need to walk a little to clear my head.”
“I know the feeling,” Stan replies. “Want company?”
“No. Thanks. You’ve been…” Jesse swallows against a lump in his throat.
“Don’t mention it,” Stan says. “We’re partners. That means being there for each other.” He raises his fist.
Jesse lifts his own to bump it. Then he opens the door and hops down. He watches as the ambulance drives off and turns a corner. A whimper escapes his throat. Not wanting to cry, Jesse pinches the bridge of his nose until he gets himself under control.
I feel all of this, almost as if the emotion is my own. I can tell when he walks inside the bar that he doesn’t want to interact with anyone. Jesse has only been here once before when an uncle died. He isn’t a regular. I also know, when he sits at the bar and pulls out his ID, that he expects to get carded because he looks younger than he really is.
The bartender barely glances at it. “What can I get you?” she asks.
“Jonnie Walker Black, on the rocks.”
The words sound like nonsense to me, but the bartender nods and moves away. Jesse is picking up his driver’s license to put it back in his wallet when I reassert control. I want to know who he is. After checking his full name, Jesse Ford, I stare at the photo. His hair is blondish-brown and long enough for the sides to be brushed back and held there with styling product. Bangs flop over his forehead, not reaching the blue eyes I saw while I was in my death throes. His expression is pensive as he stares into the camera. He does indeed look young, his cheeks shaved clean. I move my attention to his stats, starting with his age. He’s twenty-four, five foot eleven, one-hundred and eighty pounds, an organ donor, and so forth. Does it really matter? Am I going to stay with him?
Maybe. I’ve switched bodies yet again, despite the silver cord being severed, so it must be possible. Where would I go? Home? Oddly enough, my first thought isn’t of Cheyenne. I think instead of the house I woke up in this morning and the smile my mother gave me when she mentioned that tomorrow was my big day. And what about the trip that Sarah and I had planned to celebrate? Will she still wake up early and get ready, not knowing why I don’t answer her texts?
I start to cry. I can’t help it. When I glance around self-consciously, I notice how alien this environment is to me. I’ve never been in a place like this before. The neon lights make the interior glow with an unnatural light that feels sinister. I can see other miserable souls sitting at the bar. Farther away, a table of haggard men and women are shouting to be heard over each other.
When the bartender places my drink in front of me, I gulp some down, wanting the comfort it’s supposed to provide. I wince against the flavor and end up coughing as the liquid burns its way down my throat. Then I relinquish control, figuring that Jesse will be able to handle it better than I can. He does, taking a smaller sip and letting the whisky roll over his tongue before swallowing. This makes it taste better somehow, the warmth that follows welcome. Before long, Jesse signals the bartender for another.
His thoughts are on the accident and what he could have done differently if they’d gotten there sooner, or if he had acted quicker. I want him to know it’s not his fault. He shouldn’t feel bad. A couple of teenagers were out joyriding and ignored a red light, that’s all. How could he have prevented anything?
I mentally repeat this a few times, and when Jesse starts to raise his hand for a third round, he hesitates and then lowers it.
