Snake Skin

Every time I got on a bus, I’d see her. Whether I was riding the number 5 Metro downtown to work, the 45 to the University District to meet a friend for drinks, or the D Line to Seattle Center to take in a show, she’d be sitting there. First window seat on the left, fake snakeskin handbag perched on her lap, lips pursed in disapproval. Morning or night, weekday or weekend, rain or shine, there she was.

            At first I thought it was just an odd coincidence. Maybe the woman just happened to live near me and frequent the same places I did. It was possible. But as the weeks wore on and her presence on every single bus I rode continued, I had to admit that possible did not equal probable. My mind rushed to create theories. Was she a private detective that someone had paid to tail me? Was she a stalker? Or perhaps she was a long-lost relative, eager to track me down. 

In the end, none of my guesses held water. My life wasn’t interesting enough to warrant an investigation; at a matronly fifty-three, I wasn’t exactly stalking material. And with my life as routine as it was, if an estranged relative had been searching for me, she would have found me by now.

            After a month of eyeing the woman from across the aisle, trying to get some clue of her motives, I decided the only way to find out would be to ask her. So on Monday morning, I boarded the number 5 as usual. But instead of sitting on the right side of the bus, I took a deep breath and then sank into the seat next to hers.

            We rode for a few minutes in silence, her gaze trained straight ahead, mine on her profile as I pretended to watch the neighborhood roll by past the rain-streaked window. Judging by the crow’s feet at the corners of her eye and the slight shadow above her upper lip, I guessed she might be around my age. But while I was all jowls and jiggles, brought on by too many late-night cocktails and canapes with the girlfriends, her face was concaved and pinched, as if she subsisted on tea and dry toast.

            I had spent so many hours planning the day that I’d confront her, but now that we were seatmates, I couldn’t think how to begin. Should I remark on the weather? Compliment her handbag (although, like her, it gave the impression of being severe and unnecessarily small)? Finally, I decided there was nothing to do but out with it, so I turned to her and, without preamble, said, “I see you every time I ride the bus.”

            She kept her gaze aimed at the back of the driver’s head, but the hint of a frown furrowed her brow. “Is that so?”

            “Yes,” I said, twisting toward her as I warmed to my topic. “And not just this bus. The number 45, the D line…” I ticked off the routes on my fingers. “It can’t be coincidence. So I’m afraid I have to ask: Who are you?” The bus lurched on my final word, and I had to brace myself from falling into her lap.

            She swiveled to face me. “My name is Leona Marie Strickland.” She sniffed. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

            The whole interior of the bus seemed to tilt sideways, the way it did sometimes when I’d had one too many martinis. “Leona Marie Strickland? But that’s my name!”

            I expected shock, but she only pursed her lips. “Of course it is.”

            I stared at her, feeling like I was stuck in some episode of the old TV series The Twilight Zone. “I’ve done quite a bit of genealogical research,” I said. “I know about every Strickland in our family tree, and there’s never been another Leona Marie.” My face heated up, and I knew it must be turning red. “And even if there was, what are the chances she’d have the same schedule, the same routines as me?”

            “Did you ever stop to consider,” she said, her face expressionless, “that I have the same name and the same routines because I am you?”

            I glanced around the bus to see if anyone was listening, if anyone could vouch for how crazy this was, but the other passengers were too focused on their phones to notice our conversation. “No,” I said, anger creeping into my tone. “I considered that you might be a private detective or a stalker, but I never thought you might be…” I wiggled my fingers in emphatic air quotes. “…me.”

            “There’s no need to get huffy.”

            “Well, how would you feel if some strange woman followed you around every day and then claimed she was you?”

            She gave a smug little smile that made me want to slap her. “Strange, you say?”

            “Yes, strange.” I couldn’t help it; I was yelling now. “Strange, weird.” I thrust my face toward hers. “Creepy.”

            The bus’s hydraulic brakes hissed as it came to a stop. “Is there a problem, ma’am?” the driver called.

            “No,” my seatmate answered. “No problem at all.”

            “Everything’s fine,” I added.

            “Well, let’s keep it down, then,” he said as the motor rumbled back to life.

            She waited until we were moving to lean toward me. “Have you ever imagined how you might have turned out if you’d done things a tiny bit differently?” she said in a near whisper. “If you’d turned left instead of right on your last walk to the grocery store? If you’d eaten chicken for your birthday rather than steak, bought a ticket to one show instead of another.”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I growled under my breath, in deference to the driver.

            “People often think it’s the big decisions in their lives that matter. What college they choose to go to, which jobs they take.” She shook her head, not moving a hair out of place. “But it’s the small decisions that make the difference.”

            The bus swung onto Third Avenue; soon it would reach my – our— stop. I gathered my things. “And your point is?” 

            “Contrary to what you think, there are many Leona Marie Stricklands. Each time you make one decision over another, the you who would have chosen the alternative sloughs off.” She grimaced. “Sort of like a snake’s skin. Although you don’t see her, that Loena Marie walks in the world just a degree behind you or a foot to your right.”

            The bus pulled up at my stop. I’d had enough of this looney. “And that’s who you are? My snake skin?” I rolled my eyes. “The me who took the other path?” I couldn’t wait to tell the girls about this over drinks.

            “Third and Pine,” the driver called. “Lady, isn’t this your stop.”

            I stood and waved. “Coming.”

            “Well,” I said, turning back to the other Leona Marie, “enjoy your alternative day.”

            The seat stood empty. No woman, no handbag.

            “Crazy-ass bitch,” someone muttered as I stumbled toward the door.