The phone call comes late on Thursday evening, four days after she'd moved into Charlotte's house. Sarah has been waiting for it, checking her phone obsessively, but when it finally rings she hesitates—seeing James's number feels like a lifeline and a complication simultaneously.
"Hi," she says quietly, stepping into the guest bathroom and closing the door. Robert is downstairs watching television, giving her privacy, but she still whispers.
"Sarah." His voice is rough, exhausted. "God, it's good to hear your voice. How are you holding up?"
"I'm okay," she says automatically, then corrects herself. "Actually, no. I'm not okay. This is so strange, James. Everything about Charlotte's life—her house, her clothes, her relationships. I'm pretending to be someone I never met, and people are so grateful I'm 'alive' that I feel guilty for not actually being her."
"That sounds impossibly hard," James says, and she can hear him trying to focus on her words, but something in his tone makes her pause.
"How are you doing?" she asks. "Really. You sound tired."
"I'm fine," James says quickly. "Just worried about you. Tell me about Robert—is he treating you okay? Not making this harder than it has to be?"
"James." Sarah's voice is firmer now, using the tone she'd perfected over twenty years of marriage when she knew he was deflecting. "You sound exhausted. And you're avoiding my question."
There's a long pause. She can hear him breathing, can almost picture him running a hand through his hair the way he did when he was overwhelmed.
"The funeral is Saturday," he says finally. "Your funeral. I had to pick out a casket for an empty box, write an obituary for a woman who's not dead, field calls from your parents and your sister asking if they can do anything to help. And I have to act grateful for their support while planning a memorial service for someone who's sitting in another man's house carrying another man's baby."
Sarah feels tears prick her eyes—Charlotte's eyes. "Oh, James. I didn't think about... I'm so sorry. This must be horrible for you."
"It's not your fault," he says quickly. "None of this is your fault. But yes, it's... it's surreal. Your mother keeps calling to check on me, wanting to help plan the service. She's bringing photo albums so we can put together a memory board. And I have to sit there looking at pictures of our life together while pretending to grieve you, when you're alive and I can't even hold you."
"The paperwork must be awful too," Sarah says gently, recognizing that he needs to talk about this even if he's trying to protect her.
"Jesus, the paperwork," James laughs bitterly. "**** certificates, insurance claims, bank accounts, the mortgage. Everything we built together has to updated or changed. I'm having to prove my identity as your widower to access your accounts. And every form I fill out feels like I'm killing you all over again."
Sarah leans against the bathroom wall, one hand on her pregnant belly. "I never thought about that side of it. You're having to perform grief while actually grieving—not my ****, but the **** of our life together."
"And I can't tell anyone the truth," James continues, and now that the dam has broken, words pour out. "When your dad called crying yesterday, I wanted to scream that you were alive, that he shouldn't be planning to fly here for a funeral. But instead I had to comfort him, accept his condolences, promise to stay in touch because 'that's what Sarah would have wanted.'"
"James—"
"And the worst part," his voice cracks, "is that sometimes I forget. For thirty seconds, I'll be going through your things, deciding what to keep and what to donate, and I'll think 'I should ask Sarah about this.' And then I remember you're gone. Not dead, but gone from my daily life, living with another man, and I don't know when I'll see you again."
Sarah is crying now, trying to keep quiet so Robert doesn't hear. "I'm still here. I'm still me, still your wife."
"Are you?" James asks, and there's something **** in his voice. "Because you sound different. Softer. You're talking like Charlotte—not completely, but the edges are blurring. And I know you have to, I know it's survival, but it scares me. What if by the time this is over, there's nothing left of the woman I married?"
"There will be," Sarah says firmly, though she's not entirely sure. "I promise you, James. No matter how much I have to act like Charlotte, I'm still Sarah underneath. Still your wife."
"How can you be sure?" he asks.
"Because I love you," she says simply. "That's not something I can fake or forget or accidentally overwrite. Twenty years of loving you—that's who I am at my core. Charlotte's body can't change that."
James is quiet for a moment. "I love you too," he says finally. "So much it hurts. I just... I wish I could protect you from all this. Instead I feel like I'm failing you in every possible way."
"You're not failing me," Sarah insists. "You saved my life. You're dealing with an impossible situation with more grace than anyone could expect. And you're letting me lean on you even while you're barely holding yourself together."
"I should be stronger," James says.
"You should be human," Sarah corrects. "This is traumatic for both of us. Don't try to carry all of it alone." She pauses, listening to make sure Robert isn't nearby. "Can you come see me? Soon? I know it's complicated, but I need to see you. And you need to see that I'm still me."
"I've been thinking about that," James says. "Maybe after the funeral. I could be a friend from your grief support group, checking on Charlotte's recovery. Would Robert be okay with that?"
"I think so. He's been good about understanding that I need connections outside this house, outside Charlotte's life. And he likes you—trusts you."
"Okay," James says. "I'll figure something out. Maybe Monday or Tuesday."
"Good." Sarah hears movement downstairs—Robert probably heading to bed. "I should go. But James? Call me after the funeral. Even if it's hard. Especially if it's hard. I want to know how you're doing."
"I will," he promises.
"And James? I'm proud of you. For handling all of this, for taking care of everything. I know it's not fair that you have to do it alone."
"It won't be alone forever," James says, and she can hear him trying to convince himself as much as her.
"No," Sarah agrees. "It won't be forever."
After they hang up, Sarah sits in Charlotte's bathroom for a long time, processing the conversation. She'd been so focused on her own displacement, on the challenge of performing as Charlotte, that she hadn't fully considered what James was going through—attending her funeral, dissolving their shared life, grieving publicly while secretly staying connected to her.
When she finally emerges, Robert is in the kitchen getting a glass of water.
"Everything okay?" he asks gently.
"That was James," Sarah says. "He's struggling more than he's letting on. The funeral preparations, dealing with family... it's taking a toll."
Robert nods. "I imagine it would be. Having to mourn your wife publicly while knowing she's alive but unreachable—that's got to be its own kind of hell."
"He wants to visit soon. After the funeral. Would that be okay? He could say he's a friend from grief support, checking on my recovery."
"Of course," Robert says immediately. "Whatever you need. I know this arrangement is asking a lot of both of you."
Sarah looks at him—this man who's sharing his house with a stranger wearing his dead wife's face, helping her navigate an impossible deception, all so his daughter can be born safely.
"It's asking a lot of you too," she points out.
"Yeah," Robert admits. "But we're all doing what we have to do. And maybe... maybe helping each other through this is the best any of us can manage right now."
Sarah nods, resting her hand on her belly where Charlotte's daughter moves restlessly. "Maybe it is," she agrees.
But as she heads upstairs to sleep in Charlotte's bed, she can't stop thinking about James sitting alone in their house, surrounded by the evidence of their life together, preparing to bury an empty casket while his very alive wife lives as someone else.
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