CHAPTER SEVEN

The bus seat is lumpy and uncomfortable beneath me as the bus leaves the stop, driving on down the street and around a corner. Beside me, Sarah is silent, her eyes on the passing houses out the window.

It's only 9am, but we had both agreed last night to make an early start. If we want to get to her fathers' place and still have time after to go to lunch, it needs to be early. Who knows how long the truth will take to explain? Maybe it'll take hours. Maybe only minutes - enough time for me to let out a sentence before her father refuses to hear anymore, declaring it insane.

I don't entirely know why I call him that: 'her father'. They may be related by blood, but I was the one he raised. I was the one he supported through everything, every doctor visit, every trial at school. I am the daughter he cracked jokes at, and then later, watched in silence as we sat in our quiet and cold home. And it was I who walked out on him just when he needed me most, all because I felt that my grief and my battle were more important than his.

Daughter of the year, I think dryly.

I suppose, then, I don't call him my father anymore because of all that's happened since I left. I've swapped back, into my original body, my original life, and it's not just my physical appearance that has changed as a result. Now that Sarah looks like I once did it makes him feel more distant, like we're standing on opposite shores and I can only watch him through a telescope. But Sarah - Sarah can go right up to him, stand by his side, play daughter, and he won't know the difference. She looks like his daughter, she can act like his daughter, she is his daughter. Just not the one he brought up.

I wonder for a moment if this is what it feels like for Sarah to see Katherine and I talking. Then I shove the thought away.

Eventually, we pass into familiar territory: the road that leads to my old school; the road that takes us down by the beach; the road that I once walked along when making my way to school. We pass the local shopping centre where my parents did all their shopping and various landmarks my brain has stamped an invisible mark on, declaring them home. I've only lived here for seven months, but somehow it feels like I've spent an eternity in this place.

Before this, I lived in small town up in northern Queensland, where the temperature was high and the humidity was higher. It took a lot longer to get cold there, which is probably why my parents chose it in the first place, and there weren't many people in town to hate me for ruining their tropical paradise. I can remember thinking that it was the best place I'd ever called home, but I can't remember much else. That town hangs in the shadows of this Sydney suburb now, drowned out by hard days spent slogging on through torrential weather and the crazy life-changing events of the previous month.

It's not long before the bus approaches our stop, and I give Sarah a nudge, pressing the stop button. I stand up and make my way to the door, expecting people to stare at me as I do, but no one on the bus pays me any notice. Then I remember I don't look like I used to, and that the girl who brought the early winter is meant to be long gone, living in some other distant country. Is it weird that even with all the hardships of my old life, I still miss it?

The bus screeches to a stop and Sarah and I step off onto the wet pavement. It's a cold day today at only fourteen degrees, but still warmer than it was a couple weeks ago, when this part of the city was only beginning to thaw. The wind blows and I shove my bare hands into the pockets of my rain jacket, burying my nose in my grey woollen scarf.

"Lead the way," Sarah says, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold.

I nod. "This way," I say, taking her around the corner and down the street. My old house is only a few blocks from here and a weird tingling starts up in my stomach, like moths swarming around in circles, pushing up against my stomachs walls. Nerves, says a voice in my mind, and I know that it's right. I haven't seen my father in weeks, and I didn't exactly leave him in the best of conditions. Of course I'm nervous.

"What's he like?" Sarah asks as we walk, obviously trying to fill in the silence.

I shrug. "Father-y? I dunno. He makes terrible dad jokes." Correction: he used to make terrible dad jokes. But the longer Sarah can go without seeing the man I've forced her father to become, the better.

"My father used to make jokes, but that was before he... I mean, he was your father anyway. Technically."

I just nod.

"How are we going to do this again?" she asks after another minute without conversation.

"I don't know. I was going to wing it."

She nods, and our conversation hits another dead end. I don't like how things are becoming between us. It's like her secret weighs over us every time we talk, dangling off the end of every sentence, every word. I don't want to hate her for what she hasn't told me - especially since I don't know what it is yet - but I can't just brush it away and return to being her best friend. We haven't been best friends since we were five.

And it's clear that she can't brush it away either.

Suddenly, the house comes into view, and my steps falter as I take in its appearance. All the graffiti has been washed from the fence. The garden's been mowed and cared for, with a bed flowers just beneath the front window. The blinds are up, and the smell of a cooked breakfast wafts out through a window resting ajar.

"Wow," Sarah says. "This is nice. You lived here?"

I nod, and suddenly it's as if I'm seeing it through new eyes - Sarah's eyes: the modern styling which makes the house look expensive; the perfect symmetry in every detail - two patches of grass divided by a small path, two windows on each side of the door, one short pillar on each side of the gate; the colour of it all - bright reds and yellows emerging from the garden, fresh white exterior walls with splashes of exposed red-brown brick, the brilliantly green hue of healthy grass. When we bought the place seven months ago, my parents still had money. The good three quarters of a year we'd spent in the easy residence up north, combined with the well-paying job my father scored up there in the first week, had allowed us a more comfortable life. Of course, after moving to moving to Sydney it all went downhill, but you can't say it didn't start nicely.

"I have to say, I'm kind of jealous," she says.

I look at her. "It wasn't like this a month ago." A month ago it was just a house. Now it almost looks like a home.

We've stopped out front, but now I step up to the gate and swing it open, a swath of memories returning to me at the movement. I wince, angling my face away to insure Sarah doesn't see. "Come on," I say. "Let's go say hello."

We walk up the short path and stop before the door. I take a deep breath, and then raise my hand, knocking twice.

A couple minutes pass.

"Maybe he's not awake yet," Sarah says.

"He's awake - I can smell breakfast. He must just be busy."

"Try again?" Sarah asks. I nod, and raise my hand to knock a second time, but just then the door swings inwards, revealing her father.

My first thought: he looks different. Then all the details come flooding in: eyes bright and alert; hair combed and neat; posture relaxed and loose. He's wearing a blue collared shirt that looks freshly ironed, his face is clean-shaven, and his expression is clear and tidy, missing its usual messes - shadowed eyes, hollow cheeks, a smile that droops at the edges, as if dragged down by gravity. For the first time in months, he looks awake. He looks alive.

"Sorry about that, I was just turning off the-" He halts when he sees us. "Melissa?" he says, his face transforming into an expression of shock. He looks at Sarah beside me and my heart constricts painfully in my chest.

Sarah looks at me for confirmation before nodding. "Can we come inside?" she asks.

Her father - my father - nods, recovering quickly from the initial shock. "Of course, of course. Come in." He swings the door open wider, moving to the side as we step into the house.

"Is this a friend?" he asks Sarah before directing his gaze at me.

A lump forms in my throat but I swallow. "I'm Maya," I say.

"Nice to meet you, Maya," he says, as if he hasn't just invited in the daughter who left him. "I'm Thomas, but most people call me Tom."

I attempt a smile, but it keeps slipping. This is my father - the man who loved me for over a decade - and now he doesn't even know who I am. A voice inside me screams, Dad! It's me! vying for his attention, praying he'll see me, begging that he'll notice the person hiding beneath this different exterior.

But he doesn't, instead starting towards the kitchen, and I force myself to let it go.

"Would you two like any breakfast?" he asks, oblivious to my internal struggle. "I've got some leftover bacon and eggs." His voice drifts over to us from around the corner as I slowly make my way over to him. I can't help but notice how everything's changed. There's an energy in the air, making the place feel alive and warm, and even things that haven't changed look different, as if bathed in a new light. The dining table, the lounges, the stairs. The family portraits and paintings, the various knick-knacks resting on the assorted shelves and tables. These things are all the same.

The only real difference is the brightness of it all, the way it's been ordered and arranged, which seems to declare, Someone lives happily here. There's a new calendar hanging by the front door, each day filled in with various tasks and events, and as we reach the kitchen, I notice that there are post-it notes stuck to the fridge. One reads: Clean out the garage. Another: Learn to cook.

"I'd love some," Sarah says in response to his offer.

When my father looks at me, I shake my head. "I'm okay. Thanks though."

He turns away, grabbing a plate from the cupboard. "Please, sit," he says, and awkwardly, Sarah and I take a seat at the dining table side-by-side. I watch as he dishes up a plate of bacon and eggs, and feel myself frown. It's as if my absence has restored him to his original state, one of energy and happiness. The depression I left him in has disappeared without the slightest trace, and he seems to have picked himself up, brushed himself off and gotten on with his life. As much as I'm happy for him, I can't stop myself wondering how it's possible that he's moved on without me. Hasn't he been worried? What happened in the three weeks since I left?

Finished, he puts the plate of food down in front of Sarah before taking a seat opposite us, where his own plate awaits him, uneaten. "So how have you been, Melissa?" he asks casually, directing his question at Sarah. It shouldn't be a casual question - I practically ran off. He should be angry.

Sarah looks at me, unsure of what to say. Her eyes seem to ask, should I tell him? I nod.

Sarah lets out a breath, resting her fork on the edge of her plate. "Actually," she says, "I'm not Melissa. I'm Sarah."

Instantly, a frown appears on my father's forehead.

"I'm Melissa," I say, drawing his attention. "And we need to talk."

-:-:-:-:-

"Okay, so let me get this straight. You're Sarah," he says, gesturing to Sarah beside me, "but you look like Melissa." He moves his gaze to me. "And you're Melissa, but you look like Sarah."

I nod.

"And this all happened because you were swapped."

"When we were young, yes," I say. "Basically they switched out our souls - the thing that makes us who we are, consisting of our memories, personality, and emotions. But recently, we swapped back, which is why we look different. Sarah is your real daughter, she's just grown up in a different body and I had taken her place."

He stares at us. "I'm sorry, this is just a lot to take in."

I nod, and after a minute of silence, he seems to collect his thoughts. "Can I ask how this happened? Or who did it? Or why?"

Sarah looks at me before answering. "'Why might be a little difficult."

"Why's that?"

"Because we don't know," Sarah says. Then softer, she adds, "Not yet anyway."

"Do you at least know who did it?"

This time I answer. "My biological uncle." My father gives me a strange look and I shrug. "It's complicated, I suppose." I pause. "As for 'how', well, do you remember when you and mum told me about that form you signed - about people taking me away for an afternoon of harmless tests and evaluations?"

My father seems to pale at the memory. "I remember."

"Well those were the people who swapped us, and that was the afternoon it happened. Patrick - my uncle - had created some kind of device, that when pressed up against someone's chest, can extract their soul and contain it before passing it on to another body. It's not exactly painless."

He looks horrified. "And your uncle did this to you?"

I nod. "Afterwards, he erased our memories, so we wouldn't remember what he did, or who we were before being swapped." I can feel Sarah's gaze burning into the side of my head, but I continue anyway. "The only reason I know he did this is because whatever block he put in my mind has weakened and my memories have started to return."

"Hold up, our memories were erased?" Sarah asks incredulously. "How long have you known this?"

I look sideways at her. "A couple weeks. It's been coming back to me in dreams."

Now she just looks insulted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you didn't need to know," I reply, and my voice is surprisingly acidic, despite my best efforts to stay composed. "They were my memories, not yours. Can't I keep a secret? Or is it only you who gets to lie her face off in this friendship?"

Sarah's face grows dark, and I immediately regret my words. "I'm only keeping secrets because I care about you. I don't want to make your life worse than it already is."

"Worse than it already is? I'm not some delicate glass trinket. I can take a hit, and I'm sick of people keeping things from me because they don't want to hurt me. You don't have to tread carefully - I'm not going to break."

"Well maybe this is bigger than just you - maybe sharing this information affects more than one person. It can't always be about just you, Melissa. You have all these cool powers, a prophecy foretelling your oh-so-important future, and the attention of...oh, that's right - everyone!"

"I didn't ask for any of this. You want to be a part of that prophecy? You want my visions of death and destruction? Because they're yours - I don't want to have anything to do with them."

"God! You're so ungrate-"

"Girls!" my father says loudly over us, and we fall into silence, Sarah's mouth clamping shut halfway into a word. "I don't know what it is you're talking about, but surely this isn't necessary. You're just throwing insults at each other for no reason. From the sounds of things, you two have a lot going on in your life right now, and I can imagine you don't need the excess sting of pointless disputes, so call it even and move on. I believe you came here to explain things to me, and maybe for the time being, that's what you should focus on instead of tearing each other to pieces."

I let out a breath, my anger dissipating with it. As much as I hate being lectured, my father's right. "Sorry," I say, and I'm not entirely sure who I'm directing it to - my father, or Sarah.

There's a considerable silence, and then he leans forward, hands clasped, elbows resting on the table. "You mentioned powers?"

A/N

This chapter took a little bit longer than usual, so please excuse me for that. However, this may become a trend. I've just gone back to school and my teachers have decided to crank up the heat, so I'm knee-deep in school work and homework and assignments. To be honest, it's a miracle I even got this chapter done. So if you don't see another update for a couple weeks, this is why.

I apologise in advance, because I know how much it sucks to be kept waiting, but school takes priority and I hope you can understand.

That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Lots of love,

Shaye