WILMA SALINGER
Despite Mr. Rook’s efforts to prepare me, it had been nothing like I’d expected. Far more frightening. Though, had I known, I might not have gone through with it. Getting into that lagoon, facing the unknown, had given me a genuine heart attack. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Rook coming to hold me under the water, I would have kicked the bucket right then and there.
I looked in the bathroom mirror for the fiftieth time this morning. My skin was so soft and smooth. My light green eyes were vibrant. And when I flexed the hands once riddled with arthritis, they felt strong and young again. Not the hands of an eighty-year-old.
Wilma, I told myself, you should be outside, looking at the view, walking on the beach. With sunscreen, of course. Lots of sunscreen. I never wore it the first time around, but I would now. Not taking any chances.
In my colorful one-piece bathing suit and pair of long red shorts, I went out to my balcony overlooking Miami Beach. The balmy wind gusted across my face almost like it wanted to welcome me to my new life.
I heard the front door slam shut.
“Hey! You ready to go, honey?” called a familiar female voice. “I got ice, beer, and sandwiches.”
It was my new roommate, Meg. Meg Purdue. We’d met on the plane ride home from Rook’s Island and hit it off immediately.
Full of redhead spunk, that one. Though on the outside she was twice my age—in her forties. She’d recently left her wealthy cheating husband, and with her daughter grown and off to college, she and I got to talking, sparking all kinds of ideas. “I’ve always wanted to live somewhere warm, just like Mr. Rook’s Island,” I’d said on the plane, my head still buzzing with the effects of the lagoon.
“Me too!” Meg had said while guzzling martinis from her seat next to me.
“Then let’s do it. I’ve got money.” My Bob had worked hard and saved carefully, leaving me a tidy sum. Of course, I gave most of it to my kids—who I missed more than anything—but I’d kept a few million for myself. A good start to a new life.
Anyway, it had turned out that Meg had millions in the bank as part of her divorce settlement, and she planned on living the rest of her life as a free woman in the pursuit of happiness.
My kind of gal!
“I’m out here!” I called to Meg, still shocked by the sound of my twenty-year-old voice. “Just grabbing my things for the beach.”
“Oh no. Please don’t tell me you’re going in that.” Meg shook her head at me from the open sliding glass door.
I looked down at my outfit. “What’s the matter with this, dear?”
“You dress like an eighty-year-old woman, that’s what’s the matter.”
I tried not to smile.
She added, “If I had a body like yours, I’d be showin’ it off every chance I got! Look at those perky boobs.”
“Well, I-I…” I was still a product of my time. Women born in the 1930s just didn’t run around with their rears blowing in the wind unless they intended to sell it.
“Come on.” Meg waved at me. “I’m taking you shopping for a real bathing suit, one that’s worthy of Miami Beach.”
I gave her a hesitant look. Meg liked spandex, animal prints, and anything shiny.
“You’re beautiful, Jenny. What do you have to hide?”
That my name isn’t Jenny?
Oddly, it turned out that Jenny wasn’t just my new name, but also the name of Meg’s daughter. I wasn’t sure if Rook had planned it that way, but it had certainly helped the two of us bond immediately. The other Jenny was currently in New York, getting ready to attend some big fashion school. Meg wouldn’t shut up about it, but I understood. I’d raised my own two daughters.
“Thank you, Meg. And I accept your offer of shopping, but I won’t be wearing any of those strings up my rear. I want fabric. I’m a lady.”
She laughed. “You’re a strange one is what you are. Come on.”
I stepped inside, locked the sliding door, and went for my sandals by the sofa right as the phone rang. “Got it.” I grabbed the thing from the end table and fiddled with the buttons. I could see now—clear as day—but I still needed to get accustomed to all these newfangled contraptions I’d never had at home. Bob never spent a dime on anything new.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Wilma, is that you?” said the voice on the other end. My heart did the fox-trot. That wasn’t my name anymore. And I hadn’t told anyone from my past life where I was. Except for Marjorie, my good friend. She’d been the one to tell me about Mr. Rook’s fountain of youth after she’d heard I was dying of lung cancer, thanks to years of breathing in all that tar from Bob’s damned cigarettes.
“Yes,” I replied. “This is Jenny.” I looked at Meg and gave her the one-second hand signal.
“Wilma.” Marj sounded panicked. “Have you heard from Rook?”
“Uh, no. Can’t say I have.”
“Something’s wrong, Wilma. Something’s terribly wrong.” She panted.
“Where are you? What’s the matter?”
“I’m at home. I-I don’t know what’s happening.”
I stood from the sofa and took the cordless phone into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. “What do you mean?” I whispered.
“I’m aging.”
“Calm yourself, Marj. Mr. Rook told us that we would. You can’t stay young forever.”
“I know. I know. But when I woke up this morning, I looked different. Like I’ve aged ten years.”
My guts did a nasty old summersault. “Did you call Mr. Rook?”
“He’s not answering.” She began to sob. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know. But…stay calm. I’ll call you back.” I hung up and went for my nightstand to grab the card Mr. Rook had given me. “Call day or night. I’m always here for you,” he’d said.
I dialed the eight-hundred number and it rang twenty times. No one answered. I tried three more times without luck.
“Jenny!” Meg knocked on my bedroom door. “What are you doing in there? Let’s go, girl. The beach awaits!”
“Be right there, I forgot to…trim something.” I winced at my ridiculous excuse and set the phone down on my dresser.
Saint Joseph. I gasped, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had a liver spot on my cheek.
TO BE CONTINUED…