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— I’m just tired, Van… so much work today… — he threw back, and without waiting for an answer, slowly went upstairs.
The house filled with his steps creaking on the carpet runner. Vanessa stayed frozen in the middle of the living room, her figure like a painting: the green blouse tracing the curve of her breasts, her breathing too vivid, and the hand on her hip giving her an air of authority edged with irritation.
— Of course, — she said quietly, staring at the crumpled coat. — You’re tired. And I’m just relaxing, huh? In this stupid bra that pinches and cuts, with this hairstyle I still set up by instructions from some women’s magazine, and these earrings that…
She fell silent. A memory flared — that moment when Robert, still Angela then, jumped with joy in front of the mirror on one of their anniversaries, years ago. For some reason those earrings were what Angela wanted to keep, when they agreed to the witness protection program, to new bodies. And it wasn’t easy, though it seemed like such a small thing — but no, the bureaucratic machine by law had to cross out everything tied to the past. And yet they managed it, only… now Vanessa was the one wearing them.
She reached her hand to her earlobes. They still ached from the piercing done a week ago, but it was bearable. As their therapist — the one the government had thrown in as a “bonus” after their bodies got swapped — would have said: “That’s progress, Mrs. Kramer.” But thank God they never talked about such details. And definitely not about who they used to be, leaving the doctor blissfully unaware.
Vanessa sighed and stood still for a few seconds, fidgeting with the earring between her fingers. Then she drew in a sharp breath and headed for the kitchen. The fridge door opened with a soft thump. White light hit her eyes, and for a second she felt the cold air caress the skin of her collarbones beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. Vanessa blinked and started pulling out groceries — tomatoes, cucumbers, a bunch of greens. She set everything on the table, pressed the oven button: inside, a chicken already waited, rubbed thick with spices, sprigs of rosemary filling the air with their sharp scent.
— Well, since I’m the “housewife”… — muttered Vanessa, placing the vegetables on the table. — The great Mrs. Kramer, cutting veggies is her new calling.
The knife slid softly through the firm flesh of the tomatoes, red slices falling onto the plate, cucumber pieces landing beside them. She listened to the sound of the herbs being chopped, the wooden board creaking under the blade, and with every minute her irritation was turning into something almost routine.
Her hands worked steadily, but her thoughts kept circling tighter and tighter:
'Fuck, I really am stuck in this… role. Salads, cooking, cleaning, earrings in my ears. And Rob busting his ass somewhere on a construction site, a man among men. And I’m here, with boobs getting in the way every time I lean over the table, with this stupid bra, with skirts and high heels. And now cooking too… And the worst part? I used to love cooking!'
She threw the knife into the sink a little harder than she should have, wiped her hands on a towel, and set the table. Salad, chicken, bread, a bottle of white wine — it all looked like the lady of the house had put effort into creating a cozy evening. Only the lady wasn’t the one she was supposed to be. But according to all the FBI paperwork and their new cover, Vanessa Kramer was listed as a housewife, and Robert Kramer as a construction worker at a contracting company, where he’d been “placed” through FBI connections.
As part of the witness protection program, she and Robert had been given new biographies, with one condition: for the first month they had to “settle in,” go through adaptation, family therapy, and blend into their new roles. So, officially, to everyone around them, there was nothing unusual about them. On the contrary, this was exactly the kind of behavior expected from Vanessa.
She clenched her palms, feeling the ring on her finger dig into her skin, then took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Immediately the weight of her breasts shifted, reminding her of themselves.
— Robert! — she called out loudly. — Dinner’s ready!
Her voice sounded firm, with a note of authority, but inside everything twisted with contradictions and with how much it reminded her of her mother. She looked at the neatly set table and realized: it looked way too natural. As if it wasn’t a former husband and wife trapped in each other’s places, but the real Mrs. Kramer waiting for her Mr. Kramer to come home from work.
And that thought made her feel especially uneasy.