This is Part 2 of a series. Part one can be found below:

The monotonous hum of rubber hitting the road droned on as Rachael and I continued on  the fifth of our 14 hour drive. Spokane to Sacramento is normally a pretty easy flight to book, but it just wasn’t in the budget, and BioMod wasn’t going to pay us until after the study had concluded. After 3 episodes of the same podcast, and no cell service in the forested mountain passes of northern Oregon, Rachael had fallen asleep, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I considered pulling over to get some fresh air, but with more than three quarters of a tank of gas, and nothing noteworthy nearby outside of some particularly tall trees, I decided to press on. The unchanging tones of the drive were interrupted by a bump in the road, which startled Rachael awake.

She was fully assembled for safety purposes--we didn’t want to risk any parts flying out the window in case of an accident--but moderate claustrophobia and a general case of being a bubbly, high energy person made her a pretty impatient road tripper.

“How far are we?” she asked, followed by clearing the scratch from her throat.

       I looked up at my phone where it was mounted on the dashboard. “Still in Oregon, about two hours away from the border."

“Great,” she muttered in response, as she tried to get herself comfortable again. “Any chance we could stop somewhere for breakfast?”

“As soon as we see somewhere good, sure.”

        Rachael started to nod off, but had a hard time getting back into that somehow-I-can-fall-asleep-in-the-car zone. “Any chance we could pull over and stretch our legs for a bit?” she asked.

“When we get breakfast,” I responded.

My phone dinged. ‘There’s an accident ahead. You are still on the fastest route.’

“Might be a bit though, looks like we’re about to hit some congestion,” I grumbled. Another delay, just what we needed.

“Fine,” Rachael adjusted the seat back into a sitting position and unbuckled her seatbelt. “Don’t drive like a maniac.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, somewhat confusedly.

“Stretching my legs,” she replied as she climbed into the back row of our sedan. Sitting down and buckling herself in behind the driver’s seat, she hoisted her legs across the back row of seating, and placed her hands at her waist. After applying a small amount of force with her forearms, and an even smaller ‘Pop,’ her body was bisected just below her bellybutton. The upper half of Rachael climbed back into the passenger seat, now noticeably shorter, and buckled herself back in.

I adjusted the rear view mirror to admire her handiwork. With her legs crossed, her bare feet wiggled as if to wave hello. I laughed, “What, are you trying to distract me?”

“It’s not polite to stare!” she answered in a mock tone of disapproval, reaching up to adjust the rear view mirror. “I’m just stretching my legs, now eyes back on the road.” I tilted my head to give her my best ‘you’ve got to be kidding me,’ face, which prompted an exaggerated, open-mouthed wink in response.

“Hey, do you want to drive?” I joked.

“Does it look like I can drive?” Rachael retorted, the irony being her driver’s license was two months expired.

***

BioMod sure did like to keep us waiting. After hearing about the clinical trial for people with magical disorders from Jenna Klein’s interview, Rachael filed all of the lengthy forms that same night. Other than a standard “Your application has been processed,” email, we started to give up hope that she would be accepted after 3 weeks with zero communication. Rachael was still unemployed at the time, and we were only barely making ends meet with my income alone, so the payout from the study was well needed.

I sat in the rocking chair in our room as I read through my novel. I could see Rachael getting ready for bed in the master bathroom just across the room from my seat. Her head was sitting on the counter next to the sink with a few inches of neck underneath, her hands deep inside her mouth as she flossed.

Rachael is, to this day, the only person I know who flosses every single night without fail. Sure, she used to be a cosmetologist, but in general, it’s a lot easier to maintain your body when you can take it apart. Her legs were always shaved, her toenails always painted and polished, and her teeth always immaculate, the latter of which surprisingly, came easier with your head detached.

I heard the buzz of Rachael’s phone. It was an email from BioMod. The subject simply said, “Congratulations!” I frantically tried unlocking it, only to realize I didn’t know her pin.

“Hey, unlock your phone!” I exclaimed, walking into the bathroom.

“Ahh?” was all she could reply with hands in her mouth. Holding the phone directly in front of her face, and after hearing the faint ‘Click!’ sound, I tapped the notification and pulled up the email.

“Dear Rachael,” I started reading out loud, “‘We are happy to announce that you have been formally selected to take part in the clinical study in our offices based in Sacramento, California.’ Yadda yadda, it keeps going for a while. Here’s the best part though. ‘Pending physician’s approval and genetic compatibility, your suggested payment shall be delivered via direct deposit in the amount of $25,000 USD.’”

She picked up her head and held it in the crook of her arm like a basketball. “Holy shit, really? I had no idea it was going to be that much!” Rachael extended her free hand to open and close her fingers in the ubiquitous ‘gimme’ motion. “Let me see that email.” I placed the phone in her palm as she lowered it to her waist to begin reading.

“It says they need to do a DNA test before they can get started, and that a testing kit is already in the mail. It should be here either today or tomorrow.”

I furrowed my brow. “What do you think they need your DNA for?”

“According to the email, it’s to ‘Verify the nature of the candidate’s magical disorder, confirm genetic compatibility, and generate testing material as part of the clinical trial,’”  she handed me back her phone, “But they don’t really specify what the ‘testing material’ is.”

Rachael set her head back down on the counter as her body opened the cabinet to grab a tube of moisturizer. I scrolled through the email to the attachments at the bottom.

“Wow,” I said, “There’s quite a phone book of an NDA here. Looks like we’ll both need to sign it before they’ll let us into the study.”

“Yeah, I did some reading into BioMod, they’re pretty litigious when it comes to experimental technologies,” she replied with her eyes closed, as she rubbed the moisturizer into her cheeks.

***

My phone dinged. ‘In 2 miles, take the next exit to merge onto Interstate 5, Southbound.’ “That would be easy if we were actually MOVING!” I shouted as I slammed my hands on the steering wheel.

Moving five miles an hour for nearly 30 minutes had triggered my normally non-existent road rage. I’ve always been very… let’s call it punctual. When I set a schedule, I stick to that schedule. Rachael has a tendency to be the opposite, which was a bit of a point of contention between us. Regimented grooming habits aside, she’s a pretty laid back person who lives one day at a time. And as much as she refuses to admit it, that might be why she still hasn’t found a new job.

“Relax, man,” she said, “Check-in at the hotel is open until midnight, and we’re still going to arrive by 9PM. It’ll be fine.”

“I know,” I muttered, “But we’ve already missed breakfast anywhere that’s serving it, and I know you still want to get out and--” I turned to look at her. Rachael had separated both of her feet, and was using both hands to give one of them a deep tissue massage. With her waist and legs sitting in the back row, the seat in front of her had plenty of space to set her other foot sole up.

“You know,” I sighed, “It’s easy to relax when you can give yourself a fuckin’ massage.”

“You know,” she replied, turning her head to look at me after setting her foot down, “It’s easy to relax when you don’t let things outside of your control get under your skin.” Rachael reached out her left arm as far as she could in my direction, but without the leverage of a waist, she couldn’t reach or lean very far.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I stammered, as I watched her struggle from the corner of my eye.

“Look, I was going to try and be smooth, but just... pop my hands off and stick them on your shoulders,” she said. “For a massage.”

As much as it was a benefit for her, having a wife with Appendageal Delapsus was wonderful for both of us. Last year I took a 3 week long business trip that Rachael wasn’t allowed to join me on. At least, not all of her. 4,000 miles and 2 time zones weren’t enough to keep us from having some intimacy.

I reached out with my right hand and grabbed Rachael’s left. “I’m sorry I got so upset,” I sighed. “Thanks for always knowing how to cheer me up.” I popped it off at the wrist, set it on the base of my neck, and she immediately got to work. I grabbed her right hand and did the same. The massage was excellent, as always, but I still couldn’t relax.

All I could think about was how to more tactfully phrase a conversation we’d already had multiple times at this point. Rachael was a registered cosmetologist, and she really knew her stuff, but according to her, it “wasn’t what she wanted to do long term.” People have changes of mind all the time, and all I wanted was for her to be happy in her career, so we took on thousands of dollars of debt in order for her to take massage therapy classes. And, evidently, she was excellent at that too, but after making it more than halfway through the course, she decided that she didn’t want to pursue that avenue either.

“Wow,” Rachael broke the silence after several minutes, “You’re still super tense. You seem… more stressed than usual. What’s up?”

“Look, you already know how hard it was to get this much time off work.” I took a deep breath. “I was really hoping we could’ve used that time for a vacation, but we can’t afford it. Normally I’d be happy to use my whole year of PTO in order to make 25 grand, I mean, who wouldn’t?”

Rachael’s hands stopped kneading my shoulders. “What’s your point?”

“We need this money to pay off debts, and once we’ve done that, and after taxes, that’s really not a lot left over. I would’ve been super excited for some extra money, but when we need it just to avoid scraping by month to month, it’s not extra money.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rachael replied, a little defeated sounding.

“Once we pay off your massage therapy school debts, then what?” I tried as hard as I could not to raise my voice. “Are you actually going to finish the courses?” Her hands went completely slack as they slid off my shoulders and wedged in between my back and the chair.

“I can’t.” Her voice was quiet and monotone.

“Wait, what? Why?” I stammered, taken aback by the change, and the lack of her normally fiery responses. “Did something happen? Should I--”

“It’s stupid,” she muttered.

“I’m sure it’s not, just tell me what’s up.”

“YOU’LL think it’s stupid.” Rachael sounded dejected. I had been pressuring her pretty hard to get a job, and after multiple months of a single income, it had started to take a bit of a toll. Maybe I didn’t realize how hard I was actually pressuring her. “Erica found out, and she told everybody at the office.”

“Oh.” That was kind of a big deal. She worked with some… judgmental ladies. “What did they do?” I asked.

“Nothing. That’s just it. Erica was giving me a neck massage, she wanted to show me a new technique I hadn’t learned yet. I relaxed a little too much, she put enough pressure on my neck to detach it, and it came in two pieces. She freaked out, I immediately put my head back on, but since she wouldn’t stop screaming about it, everybody found out.”

I was finally able to merge onto the highway and get out of the traffic jam. As the vehicle started gaining some speed, I asked, “What did you do?”

“I just tried going back to work as normal. I came in the next day like nothing happened,” Rachael started, “And nobody really said anything.”

“That’s good though, right?” I was scanning the road for exit signs with food.

“No, because they didn’t say anything. They just wouldn’t talk to me. I’ve finished the courses, but I still need 3 months of apprenticeship practice before they’ll give me my license.” Rachael tried to wipe the tears from her eyes, but wasn’t having the best of luck with her arm stumps. “And I can’t imagine continuing an apprenticeship with those judgmental bitches.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” I tried to hold back tears as I took an exit towards a McDonald’s.

“Because,” she continued, “I thought you’d think it’s a stupid reason to quit, and that I need to be better than them, all that stuff. I just… can’t go back there.”

Now off the freeway, I pulled over to the side of the road. Leaning over to unbuckle her seatbelt, I picked up her truncated torso and gave her a big bear hug.

"Let’s put you back together and get something to eat.”

***

We finally pulled into the hotel parking lot 10 minutes to midnight. Rachael stayed asleep in the passenger’s seat as I got us checked in. I set the spare key on the dashboard in front of her. After popping the trunk, I started carrying the luggage into the room, starting with Rachael’s nearly comically oversized suitcase. Being a cosmetologist, she always brought what I thought was too much stuff, but she assured me that she had a use for all of it.

Except, this suitcase was a lot heavier than usual. Like, WAY heavier. A good 50 or 60 pounds heavier. Still, I was too tired to think much of it. All I wanted to do was get some sleep, so I lugged it into the room and continued unloading everything. Back in the trunk was my own luggage, and surprisingly, another suitcase, except this one was a lot more reasonably sized.

I know the clinic is going to last 14 days, but do you really need two suitcases? I thought to myself. Whatever, at least this one is light. With my own case in one hand and Rachael’s in the other, I could see her stretch in the passenger’s seat as she started waking up. I walked back to the room, threw the luggage on the second bed, and out of curiosity, started to unzip her massive suitcase.

Inside was a gray blanket covering some oddly shaped lumps. As I started to lift the blanket to see what was underneath, I heard the telltale beeps of the motel door unlocking as Rachael walked into the room.

“Wait!” she exclaimed, “Don’t look inside th--ahh!” With the blanket lifted, I found a sight that initially confused me. It was Rachael’s cleanly shaven hips, separated just above the waist. The disassembled legs were framing the other sides of the suitcase, with two thighs on the left and right, the calves stacked on top of each other at the base. After picking the hips up, I found both feet, nails up, underneath.

“How did… these are yours. I’d recognize those legs anywhere.”

“Damnit,” she grumbled, “I wanted it to be a surprise. When they sent us the DNA test, they also sent us two samples of Revisca. They normally only send one, so my guess is since both of us signed the non-disclosure, they sent us an extra by mistake.”

“Wow, that’s both an expensive sample to give out for free, and an expensive mistake to make.”

“Right? So, one injection of Revisca is only enough to regrow one limb, but not much more. But since we had two, I thought I’d grow back both of my legs to keep around as spares.”

“And I’m guessing the hips came from the leftover vial when we had to regrow your thumb?”

“Yup!” She sounded so excited.

“When did you have time to do this?” I asked. “It takes like 12 hours to grow anything, how did you manage to keep this a secret?”

“Well, I know you had to stay super late to catch up on work to take all this time off, so I just took the injections right after you left. Those are actually my original legs, I’m wearing the Revisca ones.”

“So… it sounds like you’re inviting me to a threesome with you, and yourself.”

“Uh, fuck yeah.” Rachael’s detached ass flexed its cheeks in my hands.