Chameleon
By Beth Bernobich
12 November 2001
Part 1 of 2
I am Chameleon.
The morning sun shines through me. I have no flesh to stop the light; no skin to catch its glory, reflect a color, or cast a shadow. I am far more than ghost; and yet, without substance, I am too much like one.
So I take up characters as I would a deck of cards. I shuffle and cut them, letting the cards flicker past; then I close my eyes and choose one.
At first glance, the card looks plain, but when you study the inkwork, you see its complex design. Look at the face -- no glitter here, no cheap seduction. Its very subtlety provokes me.
My name is Sarah.
With broad strokes I sketch an outline. I make Sarah lank and tall; I dress her neatly and without distinction -- white blouse, dark knitted skirt, shoes dulled and scuffed at their toes. She looks ordinary -- deliberately so. But with her eyes, I can gaze upon my audience; through her mouth I will speak.
I'm twenty-four. I'm not pretty, but as my mother said, I'll do.
More details now. I mix reserve with unexpected warmth. I choose a hundred flaws, and balance them with grace. Each trait, each quirk and gesture yet unmade, I sketch from the vision within. At last she stands before me.
One word, and she breathes. One touch, and we merge together. Soul within soul, we leave the void of creation.

The air around us thickened as we entered downtown New Haven. Sarah and I were walking along an uneven sidewalk. It was twilight; the streets were veiled with mist, the air scented with asphalt and the faint aroma of curry. A chain link fence bordered our path; on it hung a battered sign reading "Yale University Housing/No Trespassing." Streetlights punctuated the haze at irregular intervals.
Rounding a corner, we passed two young men and a woman, who chattered about lectures and books and where to find the cheapest falafel. Moments later, a group of teenagers passed in the opposite direction, their conversation lilting from English into Spanish and back. Emotions flickered across my palate, the raw and pungent mélange of youthful desires. I absorbed knowledge about the city from every passerby, but no one stared -- I was just another pedestrian in this neighborhood, where university and town intersected.
We passed into better-lit streets, to a neighborhood of chic stores and glass-fronted bistros, where couples strolled along brick sidewalks. Jewelry, collectibles, gourmet coffees. . . I read the shop signboards as we walked. Then, wedged between an African art gallery and a laundromat, an older tavern caught my notice. Its heavy wooden doors stood half-open, and from within came the roar of conversation mixed with laughter and music. Here, I decided.
Sarah obeyed, entering the tavern. Men and women thronged the bar. We pressed through the crowd; from all sides I tasted a rich medley of passions, but I did not pause. I would not feed on scraps and leavings. No, tonight I wished to dine exquisitely.
A nearby laugh punctured the din. Glancing toward it, I caught sight of a woman murmuring to her companion. I noted her plum-soft lips, her perfume like spice, her amber skin and crimson fingernails. She looked directly at me, and I stopped.
The boundary between me and the exterior world thinned. Sarah receded, and I sampled the woman's emotions, expecting opulence. But no. Beneath her polished exterior, I found only a meager passion, dulled by repetition. I turned away.
Under my direction, Sarah found a table near the back and gave her order to the waitress. While we waited for our drink, Sarah traced the rings on the table's scarred surface. The tavern looked far from fashionable; pale stucco covered the walls. Hidden spotlights illuminated replicas of Degas's ballerinas, Van Gogh's sunflowers, and the muted blue figures of Picasso's early period. Chandeliers, hung from wooden beams, gilded the drifting wreaths of cigarette smoke. A faint memory -- of other taverns, in other lands -- floated through her thoughts, only to vanish when the waitress appeared with Sarah's drink.
Sarah swirled the wine in her glass, watching the bubbles spin and break apart. She sighed, as though tired, and took a sip. While I kept her busy, I sketched memories of a family: a mother, a younger sister, a father who died five years ago. With quick strokes, I added enough texture for the usual questions which strangers exchange. One stranger, I thought, for I now wanted a companion.
I plucked from nothing the memory of a cloudy gray kitten, with spindly legs and a crooked tail. Tomorrow we would find such a kitten, and Hanni would be her name. Sarah's thoughts turned toward Hanni. We smiled . . .
. . . and Sarah bloomed.
I'd drawn her plainly, with a raw-boned face and thin straight lips. The smile softened her expression, and in the chandelier's light, her straw-colored hair turned to incandescent gold. Sarah pushed her drink to one side and rested her cheek against her hand, still smiling.
Not long after, the waitress placed a second drink in front of Sarah. "From the gentleman over there," she said, pointing across the room.
Following her gesture, we picked out the man, who sat with a larger crowd embrangled in a vigorous discussion. In the hazy light, we could just make out his features -- the dark hair, the restless hands, a broad ordinary face. Only his crisply white shirt stood out, the sleeves neatly rolled up and his collar unbuttoned.
Pick up the drink, I told Sarah.
She raised her glass to acknowledge the gift. A heartbeat later, the man stood and walked toward us, stopping a yard from our table. "Hi. My name's Joe." His voice carried a faint rasp from New York City, softened by years and distance.
"Hello." We kept our voice pleasant, but not eager.
"I hope you don't mind." He gestured at her drink with one nervous hand; the other gripped his half-filled glass.
"That's all right. And by the way, my name is Sarah." We pointed to the empty chair. "Would you like to sit down?"
"Thanks." With a last glance at his friends, Joe sat. He took a quick swallow of his drink, put it down, and leaned back. "Are you new in town?"
We smiled. "Fairly new."
"How do you like it so far? No, forget that question." He glanced away, smiling, but there was no humor in that wry expression. "It's too much like a game," he said. "Questions and answers, but never really talking. You know the list -- what's your name, what kind of work are you in--" He stopped again and, with a conscious effort, tempered his voice. "I'm sorry. I babble when I get nervous."
This moment is the most difficult for chameleons. Humans sense our differences, even if they cannot tell what bothers them. To soothe away Joe's nerves, I smiled and leaned forward to show I was listening. By listening, I accepted him. The first step.
Joe took a deep breath. "It's just I was listening to everyone argue about city politics. Same argument last week, same this one. Then I saw you." He rotated his glass slowly, nearly spilling his drink. "You have a pretty smile."
He dared to look up. Our gazes met, briefly. Sarah shook her head, and Joe gave a sharp laugh. "Now you think I'm a real idiot. What makes me different? I buy you a drink. I give you some line--"
We took Joe's glass and set it beyond his reach. "I smiled because I was thinking about my kitten," we said. "And I don't think you're an idiot. Though I wonder why you came here tonight. You don't look comfortable."
We smiled to soften the blunt comment. Joe returned the smile and visibly relaxed. "That's one of the illegal subjects, you know. It says so in the rule book -- never ask why."
"Why not?"
"Because you might get a real answer. Spoils the fairy tale."
"Ah, but I like those illegal questions."
His smile warmed. "I could tell, just by looking at you."
We shrugged. "You still haven't told me why you came here."
Abruptly, he looked away, uncomfortable again. "I don't know. Maybe I am just like all the others. With jokes instead of lists."
"No, you aren't." Before he could speak, I added, "Shall I tell you why I came here?"
A heartbeat of silence. "If you want."
"Because I'm lonely."
"Illegal topic number two," he said softly.
A human aware, I thought, with rising excitement. A rarity. Difficult, but oh, so delectable.
For a moment, we let the conversation dangle. I could read questions in Joe's face, and I sensed within him a reservoir of extraordinary passion, untouched and vigorous. From this one human, I could draw decades of sustenance, but first I had to draw him closer.
"We just broke all the rules," we said.
"Worse than that," said Joe. "We mentioned the rule book."
"Will they find out?"
"They always find out. The only question is how to punish us."
"No, the punishment's always the same." We rummaged through Sarah's purse and took out a five-dollar bill. "For my drink," we said, laying it on the table. "Would you make sure the waitress gets that? Oh, and do you have a pen?"
He looked startled but handed us a pen from his pocket. "What's the punishment?" he asked.
We scribbled three lines on the napkin and handed it to Joe. "Falling in love," we said.
More quickly than he could react, we stood and slipped easily through the crowds and toward the tavern door. There, a mass of humans encircled me. I ignored the crush of their emotions. Invisible, I paused and looked back.
Joe had picked up Sarah's money and was signaling to the waitress. His expression was bland, his manner unreadable. From all the signs, I thought I'd lost my gamble. Still, I waited, breathless.
A long moment passed, the longest ever, but at last he did unfold the napkin to read our message: "A challenge. My name is Sarah Evans. Call me after Wednesday."

If I had guessed correctly, Joe would easily find Sarah's telephone number. Before Wednesday, however, I needed to construct my external framework -- apartment, job, all the physical details corresponding to the memories.
The first night, I placed Sarah in a hotel. The next, I explored the city for a more permanent home. I didn't need to search long -- a tattered handbill led me to a small apartment building, in a neighborhood caught between decay and resurrection. The landlord counted my money twice, but he didn't question my documents.
Finding employment took longer. Newspapers and billboards advertised dozens of trivial jobs, but I wanted one that reflected Sarah's chosen character. At last, Sarah found an advertisement for a salesclerk job at a small bookstore near the university.
The manager liked the answers I gave to her rapid-fire questions. She hired me, and within a day, I had absorbed the trade from her. Yet I was careful not to attract attention. I sold each customer an armful of books; I took their money and gave them change. In five minutes, they would forget me. I was safe.
As a final detail, I located the nearest animal shelter. We selected a cloudy gray kitten, brought it home, and named it Hanni. With the context of Sarah's life complete, I ran my finger along the edges of memory to blur the lines. Sarah would only remember what had occurred, not when.
My plans were complete by Wednesday. On Thursday, Joe called.
"Hi, Sarah. This is Joe," said a quick voice. "From last Friday. Remember?" Over the telephone, he sounded more abrupt.
"Of course I remember you."
"Oh. Well . . . Listen, I tried finding your number yesterday. Did you know the operator had three listings for Sarah Evans?"
We laughed softly. "I told you it was a challenge."
Joe laughed as well, but nervously. "So you did. Anyway, I called because . . . Are you free Saturday night? I know a great restaurant." He paused, then continued in a milder tone. "I thought we could have dinner together."
I let him wait a heartbeat, no longer. "I'd like that," I said, and in his breathless reply, I sensed his delight. A morsel of the coming feast.
Two short days. I knew this human would not yield to anything but a flawless illusion, and so I worked on Sarah's character as never before. I gave her a birthplace, a first boyfriend, the college she'd attended but couldn't afford to finish. I drew a few memories of her childhood -- isolated days she remembered clearly -- then blended together a hazy recollection of her family and school. But the wealth of my hours I spent writing the script Sarah would follow with Joe. Under my direction, she smiled, thinking how nervous he'd been when he called, and she worried they wouldn't have anything to say. I made her wishes indistinct, like a human's.
Saturday evening, I made the final preparations. I dressed Sarah in a dark green dress, draped and tucked into a suggestion of curves. I added the ebony necklace her father had given her the Christmas before he died. With a brush to her whispery hair and a quick smudge of lipstick, Joe might find her pretty. Almost.
A sharp buzz interrupted our thoughts. Joe. Sarah glanced one last time at her dusty reflection before running to answer the door.
They drove to a small Italian restaurant on the east side of town. "I come here once a month," Joe told her. "It has the best food in town, in my opinion."
He gave Sarah advice on the dishes and chatted with the waiter in snatches of Italian, laughing at his own frequent mistakes. In the sunlit dining room, his face looked older than we'd first imagined. Gray flecked his dark hair, and the flesh along his jaw had begun to slacken. He'd dressed carefully, as though to camouflage these flaws.
Throughout the dinner, we both confined our conversation to the menu and the sundry, safe topics used by strangers: the weather, a recital of the day's events, a tentative exploration of likes and dislikes, though nothing definite. Once I let our hand brush his -- a careless affectionate gesture that brought a fleeting blush to his cheeks. But he recovered his composure, and looked at me with a bright and questioning gaze, as if to gauge my intent.
After the waiter cleared away their plates, Joe ordered coffee for Sarah, espresso for himself. Then he said, "Tell me about yourself."
"Not much to tell." Sarah looked through the milky windowpanes to the crowded walkway below. "I'm twenty-four, I studied English in college but I didn't finish my degree, and I work in a bookstore."
"Not a very detailed resume."
Sarah reached and touched his hand. "Listen, I don't like lists of questions either. Let's take this slowly. When the time comes, I'll tell you more." With a smile, she withdrew her hand.
He sighed. "You're right. I sound like I'm interviewing you."
He reached for his coffee, but then instead picked up his empty wineglass. He slowly rotated the glass, the sunlight glinting off its rim.
"I guess I should explain," he said quietly. "I'm not much used to dating." He drew a deep breath. "I was married for such a long time. And then I--"
"You don't have to tell me." We laid our hand gently over his. This time we did not draw away.
Joe glanced up. "But I do. You see, my wife decided she could do better. She left -- unexpectedly. The next day I heard from the lawyer."
We pressed our fingers lightly against his.
Joe smiled. "I'm sorry. I'm nervous again. But I thought you should know. My friends keep dragging me to bars and parties. I kept telling them they were picking the wrong places. But I guess they were right." He laughed softly.
"I hope so," we murmured, half to ourselves.
We drank our coffee silently. Joe's glances, less guarded now, revealed anticipation, but I wanted more than a single feeding. Carefully, I scripted Sarah's performance to the finest detail.
After their coffee, when Joe suggested a walk, Sarah agreed. Leaving the restaurant, they wandered along summer-baked avenues to a nearby city park. Cascades of lilacs scented the air, and in the growing twilight, the evening sun lit the grass with an emerald brilliance.
"Sarah . . ."
Sarah heard the question in Joe's voice and looked up. He kissed her lightly. She flushed and took a step backward.
Joe paused, uncertain. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind."
"No, no. I don't mind. I wanted you to kiss me." Sarah laughed. "I don't always get what I want."
Confident now, he put his arm around her. "That can't be your first kiss."
I selected a memory and drew the face of Sarah's first lover. "It's been a long time," she said.
He smiled, delighted that she'd almost forgotten. "It can't be that long ago -- you aren't that old."
Sarah touched her cheek, as if checking for signs of age.

After that first date, I spent days adding layers of detail to my character. I gave Sarah complete memories of her childhood and teenage years. To make the counterfeit flawless, I diminished one recollection, then blurred another. With every stroke of detail, the translucent skin of Sarah's infant self thickened around me. I worked cautiously, searching for that precise balance between the authentic human and a character I could control. I wanted more than a replica -- I wanted to re-create all of life's vibrant colors. Only in this way could I lead Joe from attraction to love.
We met Joe two more times, once at a different restaurant, once for a concert. His manner both times was reserved, and when I studied his face in the concert hall, I detected a tension beneath his apparent absorption in the music.
Then, not long after the concert, he invited Sarah to dinner at his apartment, where he had prepared a banquet of curried vegetables, freshly baked breads, chicken marinated in spices, and heaps of aromatic rice, dotted with cardamom seeds.
"An indoor picnic," he said, pouring wine into a pair of crystal goblets. When I took the glass from his hands, I felt a wash of emotion. Despite innumerable outward signs of age, he looked younger tonight, less guarded than before.
For hours, Joe and Sarah nibbled at the various dishes, while Joe told childhood stories, each more humorous than the last. Sarah responded with a wealth of tales I supplied. We laughed, all three, until the laughter faded into a contented silence.
Sarah touched Joe's cheek with a light hesitant touch. He tilted his head, his mouth quirked into a wry smile. All the unasked questions were gone from his expression -- all except one. In a wordless answer, Sarah kissed him.
And I, I dined.

The next afternoon, Joe called Sarah at the bookstore.
"I can't talk," Sarah said. "My shift isn't over yet."
"I thought the store closed early on Mondays."
It did, but I wanted to keep Joe uncertain about Sarah, to keep his passions strong.
"Never mind," we said. "Why did you call?"
"Just to say that I'm working at home this afternoon."
"Are you saying you'd like a visitor later?"
We made our tone light and playful, but Joe paused. "No games," he said evenly. "Not between us."
A miscalculation. I was considering how to recover, when an unaccustomed tremor ran through my character. Curious, I released a fraction of my control.
Another moment of heavy silence, then Sarah spoke.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was afraid. After last night--" She laughed softly. "I felt so . . . intimidated."
I was fascinated. Though I guided her, the words, the warmth, all came from Sarah. She will be my finest work, I thought.
"It's okay," Joe said. "We're both nervous. Listen, call me when you get home. We can get together later, if you like."
Even through this mask of flesh, I felt his gladness, like the heady bouquet of exquisite wine. The moment was here, I thought. Last night was but the promise. Soon he will yield the full treasure of his emotions. My character had learned how to lure him, even better than I could.
Wednesday, I whispered to Sarah. Let him wait a few days. The feast will prove richer.
Carefully, I withdrew control and waited, poised in case Sarah faltered.
She answered without hesitation. "I'd like that very much. I'll come by after work."
No. I touched her thoughts, ordering her to retract the promise, but my fingers slid along a glass barrier. Underneath the hum of her thoughts, I detected Sarah's unwillingness to deny Joe's happiness, even for a short while.
They said goodbye. Sarah hung up the phone and walked toward the front of the bookstore. At the next aisle, I touched her thoughts, directing her back to the phone. It wasn't too late; she could call Joe, make her excuses, and delay the moment.
But Sarah turned in the opposite direction, walking slowly along the aisle, lost in thought. Her own thoughts, not mine. Again, I tried to command her, but my fingers scrabbled against an impenetrable surface and finally slipped away.

Chameleon
By Beth Bernobich
19 November 2001
Part 2 of 2
Read Part 1 here 
The clock read ten minutes past five. Sarah halted at the back of the store, fascinated by the rows of multicolored bindings. She ran her fingers over the covers and sniffed the ink and leather. Within herself, she felt an odd squirming, and her thoughts blurred for a moment. She shook her head, trying to regain her bearings.
"Time to go, Sarah." Martha, the store manager, rattled her bunch of keys. "I'm going home to good cooking and bad television." She paused, and stared at Sarah's face. "What's the matter, honey? Are you sick?"
"No," Sarah answered faintly. "I'm fine."
"You look pale." Martha laid her palm against Sarah's forehead. "Why don't you go home? Get some rest. I'll close up."
Sarah walked home through an alien world. Although she knew every street and crossing, like a much-read story, each detail felt disconnected from the whole. Something tugged at her memory. She stopped before an apartment building with stained ivory columns around its broad porch. I live here.
Again, something wriggled within her thoughts. She shrugged away the sensation and, opening her door, stepped over the clutter of mail into her apartment.
Close door. Remove jacket. Sarah stared at the strange, familiar living room. How long had she lived here? A week? A month? Precise memory fled at her approach.
Hanni trotted into the room, chirping for attention.
"Kitten." Sarah picked her up awkwardly. She ran curious fingers over the kitten's face, rubbed her cheek against the kitten's fluffy sides. Hanni mewed in protest and twisted away, using pinprick claws to free herself.
Distracted, Sarah drifted to the front window. Outside, clouds blotted the sky, and rain had begun to fall in heavy drops. Cold. Gray. She touched the misted glass, tracing the crooked paths left by the rain. All strange. Too strange.
A sudden urgent longing for the familiar seized her. I'll call Mom, she decided, and dialed the number in her memory.
The phone range twice. "Hello," said a stranger's voice. "Morrison Office Supply."
"Hello, Mom?"
"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number."
"No, wait. I'm trying to reach Michelle Evans."
"No one by that name works here."
"But I'm calling her house--"
"You've reached a business. Sorry."
The stranger hung up. Sarah closed her eyes. That's not possible. I know this number. I've dialed it every week for-- For how long?
She dialed again, but when the same stranger answered, panic seized her. She slammed the receiver down and ran blindly from her apartment and into the streets.
"Hey, what is this--?"
She'd run headlong into an old man, scattering his books over the wet pavement. Scowling, he stooped to retrieve his property. "Look at that," he muttered. "Just look. You should watch before you run into the street like I don't know what." He brushed gravel from one book, shielding it from the rain, his lips pursed in irritation.
Sarah picked up the nearest book. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you. I was looking for my mother."
The old man jerked his head up, and his bright, narrow eyes fixed on hers. Slowly, he took the book from her. "I am sorry for you," he said quietly.
She started to explain, but he lurched across the street and was gone. Now the rain was falling harder. She ought to go inside, she thought, as fragments of old memories came back to her. Ought to change her clothes before she called Joe.
Joe. I need to find Joe.
Oblivious to the storm, Sarah ran through the streets to Joe's apartment. "Joe," she called, knocking on his door. "Joe, it's me."
Joe opened the door abruptly. "Sarah? Hey, you're wet. What did you do? Run here in the rain?"
With relief, she saw he was smiling. "Yes, I did."
Joe brushed the wet hair from her face. "You really did, didn't you? What's the matter?"
Wordlessly, she put her arms around him. Already, in his presence, she'd recovered some of her self-possession. "Nothing happened. I -- I just couldn't wait to see you."

Weeks -- months -- passed.
Joe called Sarah every day. Sarah spent every evening in his company. She gave notice to her landlord. Half her belongings were already at Joe's apartment, and she'd redirected her mail to his address. Hanni came soon afterward, settling easily into her new home.
Within Sarah, I witnessed the release of Joe's long-guarded love. I saw how his gaze warmed; dimly I sensed his fingers brushing her cheek just before he kissed her. But Sarah stood between the world and me, an impenetrable barrier of flesh and thought and life. And she, not I, fed on Joe's emotions -- a careless feasting on passions beyond my reach. At first I tried to control her. I tried to speak, but the incessant flood of her thoughts blockaded my voice. I had just one chance left.

Leaving the silent void between dreams, Sarah found herself walking along a narrow path that burrowed through a thick forest. The sharp scent of resin tickled her nose; pine needles caressed her skin. Nothing troubled her, not even the impenetrable dark, because she knew she was dreaming. She thought she might journey this way forever and not grow tired.
Then, a thin voice broke the hush. "Sarah. Help me."
Startled, she turned toward the sound. "Who's there?"
"I am Chameleon."
Her breath caught on the edge of memory. "What do you mean -- Chameleon?"
As if in reply, a light blazed into life further ahead. Sarah walked toward it, knowing she would find the answer there.
She had almost reached the light when, without warning, a clearing opened abruptly in the woods. She stopped.
A figure sat beneath the light; the creature was dark, and the light seemed to shine through it. Sarah held her breath, afraid the creature would turn around, but some task absorbed its attention completely. Sarah stole to the clearing's edge, moving soundlessly over the pine needles. The creature bent over a large canvas, its hands moving with quick, expert strokes. Two steps more, and Sarah saw what it was drawing. A portrait of her.

"Sarah, what's the matter?"
"Nothing. Why?"
Joe set the coffeepot and two cups on their kitchen table. "You had another nightmare -- I heard you get up."
Sarah poured her coffee listlessly. "Sorry. I must be nervous about that job review next week."
Joe frowned. "You haven't slept well these past two weeks. Why don't you call in sick today?"
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You look like--"
"Yes, I am," she snapped. "Now leave me alone."
Joe flinched and spun away from her.
Looking at his rounding shoulders, his grizzled hair, Sarah felt a squirming inside her, and her eyesight blurred with exhaustion. She wanted to shout angry words at Joe and provoke him into fighting back.
Instead, she kept her voice to a strained monotone. "You're late for work already. Why don't you go?"
"I will." He yanked his coat from the closet and left.
Five minutes passed before Sarah moved. Slowly, she uncurled her stiff fingers; she took a shaking breath, and felt the ache of tension spread throughout her chest. We've never done that before. His voice had sounded so cold, so flat. Hers so harsh.
Too late to recall her words, too late to chase after him through the streets. But not too late to mend the damage, she thought. I'll leave a message for him at work.
She stood. Another bout of dizziness swept over her. She shook her head, willing herself to remain upright. Her nightmares had lasted far longer than two weeks, and each one had left her more exhausted than the last, until the line between waking and sleeping felt hazy and unreal.
A loud clatter made her jump, and the room came back into focus. Mail time, she thought with a weak laugh. A second later, she heard a familiar rustle as Hanni attacked the paper intruder. Oh, no. Last time, she'd clawed the electric bill to pieces. Automatically, Sarah hurried to rescue the mail.
Against Hanni's objections, Sarah separated the kitten from her prey and carried the pile to the coffee table for sorting. Bills and more bills, catalogs, . . . What's this?
She pulled an envelope from the stack. It was the letter she'd mailed to her mother the week before. A red stamp over the address read: "Return to Sender. Addressee Unknown."
Sarah sank back, staring at the envelope, but still the words made no sense. With shaking hands, she set the letter aside and glanced at the next item -- a postcard. Again, her vision swam; the picture blurred and resolved into a new image -- Escher's famous lithograph of two hands drawing each other. Underneath the picture Sarah read the words, Help me, Sarah.
She dropped the card. "That's not possible." Quickly, she glanced down at the pile of mail in her lap. The electric bill lay on top, its columns of numbers transforming into a new message as she watched: Stop pretending, Sarah. You remember the dream. I am Chameleon.
Sarah shut her eyes, but red letters scrawled a new message across her lids: Release me.
She took a deep breath, started to moan, forced herself to stop. "I'm having another nightmare," she said out loud. "I'm dreaming, even though I'm awake. I've read about this, it's called--"
What about the letters? said a voice inside her. The postcards?
They lay on the ground where she'd dropped them. Sarah reached for one, then yanked her hand back. She tried to breathe, but a weight crowded her chest, and she started to shake. I can't stay here. Still trembling, she stood and lurched to the front hallway.
You tried to run away once before. Remember? That day you ran here from your old apartment--
Sarah pulled her coat from the closet, struggling to separate it from the hanger.
--the day you came to life--
She fled the apartment and slammed the door. For more than an hour, she walked as quickly as possible, turning corners and crossing streets at random. Over and over, her thoughts replayed her nightmares. What could they mean? How could she escape them?
What if she couldn't?
Snowflakes speckled the ground; more whirled around her. Above, sheets of clouds covered the sky. Soon she reached the crowded shopping district; Christmas decorations winked from street lamps, and glittering mannequins filled the store windows. Sarah rushed blindly past them through the gathering storm. Walk, she told herself. Keep walking.

By midnight, the storm had passed, leaving in its wake a trackless city, becalmed. Snow covered the side streets, and streetlamps cast their bright haloes across the drifts. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped in an old blanket, Sarah looked out the window into the night.
Joe had returned late and had gone to bed. They had not spoken. Now, staring into the winter darkness, she tried to unravel the puzzle of her nightmares.
I could be insane, she thought. I could find a doctor -- no, a psychologist, to discover the missing pieces in my past. If, she reminded herself, she had a past to explore.
A sudden chill penetrated her blanket. Throwing the blanket aside, she hurried into the kitchen and, without thinking, lit a burner for the teakettle. As she waited for the water to boil, she thought about her mother, how she had done the same after Sarah's father died -- a midnight watch, the comfort of endless, restless tasks.
But could she trust that memory?
The kettle whistled sharply, and Sarah snapped the burner off.
I can't let this go on.
She stood in her kitchen and said, distinctly, "Chameleon."
"Sarah."
It answered so quickly, she realized it had only waited for her summons. With effort, she willed her voice to remain calm. "Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want from me?"
A long pause followed. Then, "Do you remember your dreams?"
"Yes, but--"
Her vision blurred, then cleared. She saw a blank canvas. The next moment, she saw the outline of a figure -- hers. Lines and color and shading appeared, just like the portrait from her dreams, gathering depth and vibrancy, until she saw the moment when the static picture changed into the living Sarah.
It created me. For a long moment, she could not breathe, could not speak.
Still more images flickered past. She saw everything that had happened in the past four months, but her perspective had changed, and she saw herself trapped within another soul. Just as Chameleon must see the world now.
"Let me go," said Chameleon, "or I will die."
Her vision changed focus, and once more she saw the kitchen. She swayed and gripped the table's edge, dizzy from the sudden change. Traces of Chameleon's raw desperation remained with her, echoed by her own. Now she could sense Chameleon inside, waiting for her to speak.
"If I release you, what happens to me?"
Silence.
"Will I die?" she asked, somewhat louder.
"Yes," the voice said. "No. We could share the death, the same way we shared life."
It doesn't know. Or it doesn't want to tell me.
"I do know, Sarah."
Maybe, she thought. "You're playing games with words," she said. "Tell me -- in plain words -- what happens to me."
"You will live -- for a time. I remain inside, but when you sleep, you will release me to feed outside. When you die, the way all humans must die, I go free once more. That is all I can pledge."
Sarah shuddered. All humans die, she told herself. Even so . . .
"And if I refuse?"
"You might survive. But will Joe love you, once he knows you aren't human?"
I am human, she thought, but could not say the words. She was a human with four months of genuine memories. Everything else was an illusion.
A light touch, like fingertips against her thoughts, startled her. "Go back to the clearing," said Chameleon. "Let me show you what to do. And I promise you memories, good memories, for the rest of your life."
Sarah shivered, licked her lips. "You're lying. You want to kill me."
"No. Without you, I will die."
Lies or truth or something in between? How could she tell? Her head ached. Her pulse throbbed in a staccato rhythm. Within, she heard the whisper of its thoughts, urging her to act. She had to decide now.
"Lead me to the clearing," she said.

There were differences this time. The ground crackled underfoot. When she brushed against them, the pine needles shivered and dropped to the ground. As she approached the clearing, trees bent away from her path, revealing a blank night sky and a penny-bright moon. Even the air had changed, robbed of the warm pine scent she remembered from her other dreams. Light cascaded over the trees, and a shimmer of sound filled the air. When she stepped into the clearing itself, the hum dissolved into silence.
A brilliant, polished light illuminated the space. Empty this time. No easel, no dark creature painting her portrait. Sarah let a thin sigh escape her.
Then, opposite her, she saw Chameleon.
An electric shock rippled through her. She took an involuntary step backward, but Chameleon immediately beckoned her further into the moonlight. No escape, Sarah thought. She sucked in a breath of the chill air and took three steps toward the center. Chameleon did the same.
For the first time, she saw it face to face. All those weeks, she'd only seen its hunched back -- half specter, half darker substance -- and its hands, moving rapidly over the canvas. Even when she had confronted it, awake, she'd only heard its thin voice, vibrating inside her.
Its body was darker than night itself, blending into the surrounding shadows. But when it moved, she saw fluttering arms, a swirl suggesting a face, and two brilliant points that might be eyes. Alien. Only its hands -- strong, slender curves tapering to the fingertips -- seemed human. Those hands had held the paintbrush, sketched her face with masterly strokes.
Chameleon turned its luminous eyes on her, waiting for her to speak.
"Why did you make me?" she asked.
"I needed you -- flesh and spirit both."
"But I'm not the first."
"No. But of all my children, I love you best."
It made a gesture and Sarah saw a vision of hundreds like herself -- a courtesan in ancient China, a mercenary soldier wandering through Germany's ravaged farmlands, a dark grizzled crone in a carnival who snatched sustenance from the audience's wonder. Each chosen from an outline, sketched and shaded into brief reality, they had all crumbled into nothingness.
"You made me different from the others," she said. "Why?"
Its head jerked away from her. Surprised, she thought. Or afraid. "Not different," it said. "More alive."
She shuddered. "Why?"
"To feed. To survive."
From all these hints, visions and words floating between them, Sarah sensed how long Chameleon had lived on the borders of life. Desperate and starving, she thought, and with a profound loneliness she could only guess at. She felt a reluctant compassion, and wondered if that emotion was from her or from her creator.
"I don't want to die," she said.
"And I wish to live." It drifted closer.
Sarah stilled the impulse to run. "But are you alive?"
Chameleon paused, a motionless shadow. "What do you mean?"
"You feed. You pretend to live. But you aren't really alive. What if . . ." She fumbled through her inadequate memories for the right arguments. "What if you dared to really live," she said, "not just through me, but with me? Think of the emotions you would taste."
"Inside you, I taste nothing. I starve."
"Because we've remained divided. We have to change that."
"You would be my companion?" It sounded doubtful.
"More than a companion." Sarah thought of Joe, alone after his wife deserted him, and from that painful image, she found the words. "We could join together," she said. "You with me. Both of us with Joe -- the way true humans do."
"The sum of three," Chameleon murmured. It gazed at her steadily. Slowly it nodded, then held open its arms.
The final telling moment of trust.
Sarah stepped into Chameleon's embrace. Skin pressed against ghostly skin, and she felt its terrifying urge to comfort her, to kill her, to create her anew. She thought of Joe once more and from that took courage.
"Join with me," she said. "And we can all three live."

The emptiness of night gave way to morning, to bright sunlight and the sound of Joe's voice. "Wake up, Sarah. It's past seven o'clock."
Sarah stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Joe stood at the door to their bedroom, already dressed for work.
"I dreamed it was Saturday," she said.
"It's not. But if you hurry, you have time for coffee."
"With you?" She offered him a smile. "I'd like that."
Joe tilted his head, a cautious look on his face. "You look rested. Did you sleep better last night?"
"Much better."
She held out her hands. Three steps and Joe was at her side. She kissed him, and brushed the hair from his eyes, her gentle caress a wordless apology for all her bitter words. The last of Joe's reserve disappeared, and he gave her a lingering kiss before he helped us rise.
She. I. We. Already I find it difficult to discern the boundary dividing our souls, and when Joe touches our cheek, Sarah's undiluted joy is almost too painful for me. I could not bear it alone, but she stands here beside me, inside me, around me. Through her vulnerability, she teaches me compassion. Through my centuries of existence, I will gift her with knowledge.
So finally, we both will live, for as long as our body does. Who knows what happens after? The uncertainty terrifies me, but for this one peerless creation, I will dare everything. The ultimate risk for the ultimate illusion: for life itself.
 
Copyright © 2001 Beth Bernobich