The Imposter

Every now and again, despite my mother’s genuine efforts to prevent it, we would come down with some kind of seasonal bug, and thus present flu-like symptoms. Being a nine-year old kid, I used to have quite a high threshold for pain (unlike the grown up version of me, who thinks she’s is going to die every time she contracts a common cold) and therefore quite looked forward to these sick-at-home days. To the contrary of what I always had in mind, my mother (a woman who has always detested the idea of wasting time) would always treat these days as opportunities to do chores around the house. As for me, I always pictured my mother as some kind of a Florence Nightingale-type figure, bent over me with an expression of agony on her face (not very unlike the expression you can find on old paintings of Mary Magdalene). Even so, being home sick would always involve lying wrapped up in blankets watching a few movies before having a home cooked meal. That sure beats a day at school!

This particular sick day was just as all the others. My mother had this theory that the flu is partly psychological, so she would spoil us a little bit more to take our mind off the actual disease. This meant that we could ask for candies mid-week (within reason) or any kind of food we craved. I remember always wanting seedless grapes. Anyway, this story takes place around one of these sick days that would have been like any other sick day and would probably have not even been remembered, had it not been for what happened next.

After two days of being sick, the inevitable return to school. It was one of those cold and rainy days, so typical for Sweden, and I remember my mother drove me to school (which she rarely did) because of my frail condition.

My first tip off was that all of my school mates were giving me odd looks. Nothing was said or suggested, but there was something odd. Being a kid, I just waved it off the way kids do and went to sit down on my seat.

It was time for morning assembly. This too, ran its normal course, and I was probably thinking of the sneakiest way to be the first one to run out to get the class communitarian basketball and thus be the queen of the recess then the teacher turned to me. With her eyes (and everyone else’s) fixed at me she says:

“…and let us not forget to ask Elena why, when we all spotted her on the grassy hill behind the school, she had the audacity to make a run for it. It is clear that as we all have seen her and that she certainly was not home sick in bed yesterday!”

Imagine my surprise! Here I was, a survivor of the flu, getting accused of having faked my ordeal! Ah, the shame I felt! I felt a million, no a TRILLION pair of eyes, glaring at me with contempt and a kind of “see, there, we got you” kind of triumphant look. I remember my eyes filling up with tears. I got up from my desk and ran all the way home.

My mother, being a warrior by nature, got completely and insanely angry when I told her about my predicament. She marched straight to the school, me shortly behind her, half running to keep up with her angry steps. When we arrived, she marched straight into the headmaster’s secretary’s office, have her and angry stare and demanded to speak to the headmaster or she would sue the school. Within minutes she had gotten an audience not only with my teacher, but also with the president of the PTA and with the headmaster of our school. You see, to date I have not encountered one single person who does not quiver with fear at the sight of my mother On the Warpath.

From the hallway, where I was sitting I could hear my mother’s angry don’t-mess-with-me-because-I-can-make-your-life-hell voice shouting things like: “if you call my daughter a liar, you are calling me a liar” and “I was home with my sick daughter all day long. Do you also think that I stayed home from work because I wanted a day off”, followed by muffled voices, with a deeply unhappy tone of apology and regret. After a long, long time, my mother came out from the headmaster’s office and, grabbed me by the hand and, speaking through her teeth, she said “let’s go home, child. It is all sorted.”

The next morning in school, my teacher issued a public apology to me, swearing that the girl they had seen on that grassy hill was a complete lookalike, but of course, if I (that is, my angry mother) said that it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me. I was an honest girl and would never lie (please don’t unleash your mother on me again).

The matter was not discussed further, or ever again. I must admit that I still today, every now and again think of this incident. I am still very puzzled over who this lookalike person was. Where did she come from?

I often find today that when someone claims that someone looks like me, I am highly disappointed. I do not recognize myself at all in these imposters. Maybe because I am still hoping to, one day, reunite with this person who looks exactly like me, to the degree that she was at some point mistaken for me. I wonder if she still looks like me?

And most importantly; is she still out there today, up to no good?