Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler Page B

body is clad in loose white trousers and a long chemise of sheer white with little opaque spots, and underneath a surprisingly comfortable yet form-molded sleeveless bodice in a pale pink.
    “One thing that knock on the head did for you is make you appreciate your beauty,” Anna says. “I don’t think I have ever seen you get dressed without rattling off a laundry list of complaints.”
    “A pity, that.” It seems the owner of this body has little appreciation for it. Curiously I have not, until this moment, thought of who Courtney Stone actually might be. Or where she might be, if she has vacated this body and left it for me. If my soul has transmigrated to her body, then has her soul transmigrated to mine? Or—
    “Dear Lord.” I cannot believe what I am seeing in the bookcase in front of me: a book lying on its side, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. And shelved neatly behind it, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Emma by Jane Austen . . .
    “Sweetie?”
    “Are you okay?”
    “I—yes, I am perfectly well. Would you be so kind as to allow me a few minutes? I assure you I am well.”
    Paula and Anna exchange glances, Anna shrugs. “Sure, darling,” Paula says. “We’ll be right out here.”
    I close the door behind them and remove Pride and Prejudice from the bookcase, which is packed with books, so much so that they are piled every which way and are two deep in places. This must be—is it—there cannot be two books with that title—yet I have never known the name of the author, who is simply referred to on the title page of my copy as “the author of ‘Sense and Sensibility. ’ ” I turn to the first page: It is a truth universally acknowledged . . . yes, it is indeed the same book. And in this bookcase are not only Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, the only two novels I have ever known to have been written by this author, this Miss Austen, but there is a third, Emma . And—could it be—a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth novel, Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, Persuasion . All by Jane Austen. Six novels in all! What an embarrassment of riches!
    I turn to the title pages of the other four novels—they were published after 1813, which is why I do not know of them. . . .
    “Courtney?”
    “A moment, please.” I cannot wait to return here and read every one of these books—these curious, future-world things that are complete in a single volume and bound in paper instead of boards or leather, but nonetheless precious treasures.
    Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now . I do not know how I have come to be in this time, in this place, in this body. But I do know that any place where there are six novels by the author of Pride and Prejudice must be a very special sort of heaven.

Eight
    N ow that I am able to keep my seat in Paula’s car without hav ing to grip anyone’s arm, I am at leisure to observe the world passing by at an astonishing pace. There are men, women, and children of a variety of complexions going about their business, a few walking in and out of shops, most riding in cars, laughing, frowning, talking, silent—they are brown and white and black, they are Asian and European and even African, all apparently in a state of perfect freedom and equanimity. I thought this must be so when I saw a couple of African ladies at Dr. Menziger’s establishment, but now I know that slavery itself, and not just the trade, is finally at an end. This is a most delightful aspect to the world in which I find myself.
    Whenever I manage to tear my eyes from the wonders of the streets, I observe Paula closely, for I would like to understand how she drives. All I can glean from her movements is that driving involves depressing something on the floor with her foot as well as maneuvering a wheel with her hands.
    “Why can’t they synchronize these stupid lights?” she says as she brings the car to a sudden stop at a crossroads, and it is then that I