by Anne Mazer
They sang loudly in my ear during roll call.
I could feel them next to me, one on either side, bumping lightly against my shoulders and legs. They were like two clouds, like two breezy winds. Sometimes they merged and moved around me. And they talked constantly.
I kept tripping over their feet, banging into their elbows. When I thought one was to the left, he was to the right. When I thought the other was in front of me, he was at my side.
They had always been with me—that’s what they said—but it had never been like this before.
“How come you never bothered me before?” I asked.
“You didn’t want to listen,” one of them said.
“We were doing things but you couldn’t feel them,” said the other.
“Now you’ve talked to us,” they both said. “Now you’ve seen us.”
“This means you can annoy me and tease me?” I demanded.
“We’re just playing!”
“Don’t you have a sense of humor?”
“He must,” one of them said. “We do.”
In gym they whirled around me as if I were a maypole. I stumbled over my own feet, fumbled the ball, and crashed into the other kids on my team. The coach ordered me to sit down until my head cleared.
At lunchtime they argued over what I should eat. I ended up with three salads, two rice puddings, and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches.
And in math class they whispered answers to my teacher’s questions. The wrong answers. So many wrong answers, I couldn’t think.
“Sssshhh!” I hissed.
“Don’t you like us?” one asked plaintively in his high-pitched voice.
“No!”
“Jeremy …” The math teacher was frowning at me.
“Well, you’re stuck with us,” boomed the other, and planted a loud, smacking kiss on my check. Just like a six-year-old. Come to think of it, that’s how old they had looked when I had seen them on either side of the bed. Just what I needed, getting stuck with two immature versions of myself.
One of them tickled me under the chin.
I fell out of my chair, tripped, and crashed to the floor.
“Are you all right?” the teacher asked, standing above me. “You seem nervous today.” He helped me to my feet.
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Well, really,” huffed one of them from behind me. “Nothing? Is that how you talk about yourself?”
“Hardly nothing, dear,” said the high-pitched voice. I couldn’t tell where he was.
I batted the air around me. “Go away.”
The teacher stared.
“Not you!” I said. “I was talking to—um—”
“Do you need to go to the nurse’s office? You don’t seem to be all here today,” the teacher said.
“On the contrary,” I groaned. “Too much of me is here.”
“That was fun, fun,” they said on the way home. “We like going to school with you.”
“Where is your home?” I asked. “I’m taking you there.”
“Why, we live with you, dear,” piped one double, whose shrill voice was beginning to get on my nerves.
“You,” echoed the other.
“Where did you live before you met me?”
They giggled. “With you! But you never listened to us. So we had to phone you.”
“You were the one,” they said. “The one we were destined for.”
“We love you,” they said.
I wondered how you got rid of your own selves.
“You can’t get rid of us,” they said. “We’re here to stay.”
I didn’t even have to say anything. They had heard me thinking. I flung out my arms. “I can’t stand it! You never leave me alone!”
“Watch it, will you?” complained one of them.
“So clumsy, isn’t he?” said the other.
“You messed up my entire day!” I yelled. “I wish I had hung up on you before you even called!”
“Sorry, so sorry,” they said with a little sob. “We’ll try not to do it again.”
I bounded up the stairs to my house. I wanted to run away, to slam the front door in their faces, to leave them behind forever. They were so annoying. So persistent. So immature. So ignorant.
But they were me. And I was stuck with them.
IV.
They didn’t talk for a while after that. I could feel them around me, though, like a patch of cooler air next to my arms and head.
I did my homework. I heard them whispering in the corner of the room. Then they came back to my side.
The air around me rippled, and I could see them. They looked like they had grown up a bit. Now they looked about eight and a half. One was eating a peanut butter sandwich; the other was pretending to fly a paper airplane.
“We’re sorry, Jeremy,” whispered the one with the sandwich.
“Really sorry,” said the other one, running his hand over his paper airplane.
They spoke in soft, soothing voices.
“We won’t do it again.”
“No, not ever.”
“We want to help you.”
“Not hinder you.”
“If you want to help me, leave me alone! I mean it!”
They faded away then, with a few stifled sobs. I didn’t hear from them again that night, though I could feel their presence everywhere.
I sensed them around me the next morning when I woke up and when I sat down to breakfast. They got on the school bus and followed me to homeroom. But they didn’t say a word. At first I enjoyed it.
After a while their silence made me uneasy.
In English class that afternoon they reappeared. I had to write a story. As usual I couldn’t think what to put down. I wrote a few boring sentences about my last birthday.
“No, no,” said two voices right in my ear. “You’re on the wrong track.”
“Go away! I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Your story is not original. You can do better than that.”
“Not if you keep talking at me!” I bent over my paper.
“Don’t write that trash. And watch those elbows.”
“Can I get back to my story?” I tried to brush them away, but they wouldn’t leave.
“Listen!” scolded one of them. “We know what we’re talking about.”
“I thought you weren’t going to bother me anymore.”
“We’re helping you,” said the other. “Trust us.”
“We know how to improve your story.”
“We’ll tell you just what to do.”
“All right, all right.” They couldn’t do much worse than I had done. I crumpled up my paper and took out a fresh sheet.
“My two lost selves showed up yesterday …,” one of them whispered in my ear.
I wrote the words down on the paper. They spoke out one line after another. I hoped this didn’t count as cheating. They were my own selves, weren’t they? After a while it seemed like my own mind talking to me.
I was done before anyone else in the class and handed in my paper. Then I sat down at my desk and watched the teacher read my story.
She read it once, twice. Then she called me over. “Where did you get this idea?”
“From myself,” I answered, hoping that was close enough to the truth.
She beamed at me. “That is the true source of inspiration.”
I smiled weakly at her. “Actually it was dictated to me … by myselves, I mean.”
“You feel you are guided?” Mrs. Adams asked. “Many great artists speak of voices dictating to them …”
“We told you, we told you,” they gloated.
I pretended not to hear them.
Mrs. Adams looked at my paper again. “This is so different from your usual writing.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You seem different today,” she continued. “Fuller, richer.” She stared at me intently.
“Yes, there is more to you than
I thought,” she said softly.
The two of them snickered.
“You have unrealized potential,” said Mrs. Adams. “A gem in the rough. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“We all have parts of ourselves we don’t know,” I said.
“Wise beyond your years,” said Mrs. Adams. “I’ve just decided to give you an A for this marking period.”
The bell rang. I gathered up my books.
“And I look forward to reading more of these wonderful compositions!” Mrs. Adams called after me as I left the classroom.
“That was great,” I said in the hallway. “That was amazing.”
“Wait,” said one. His voice was different, softer, mellower. “More is to come.”
The other giggled. His laugh was less high-pitched now.
Every night they showed themselves to me. Each time they got closer to my age, looked more like me. Their voices were changing, too. More and more they were becoming mirror images of me.
They hadn’t been kidding about helping me. It was as if I had the power of three. One day I was fumbling, bumbling, and failing; now I was almost superhuman.
I got a perfect score on an extremely difficult social studies test.
I sang a solo in chorus. Usually my voice cracked and wobbled, but suddenly I had power and range.
During basketball practice, I almost single-handedly won the game for my team.
I wrote another “brilliant” composition for Mrs. Adams.
At home the two of them helped me clean the basement, the attic, and the backyard. My mother was astounded. “You’ve done the work of three,” she said.
“Have I ever,” I said.
“You need us, you need us,” they chanted in my ear. “You need us as much as we need you.”
I was starting to think they were right.
It went on like that for three weeks. I was the first kid chosen for any team. The teachers praised me to the skies. My mother doubled my allowance. Everyone loved me.
When I thanked my doubles they said, “Helping you is helping ourselves.”
“We’re planning for the future,” they said.
I thought of my own future—of all the A’s on my report cards, the parties thrown just for me, the rewards from my parents. “Sounds good,” I said. “Keep on planning.”
I heard them turning the pages of my math book. I didn’t even have to study anymore.
V.
One night I was reading in bed. My doubles had been quiet for a while—they were dozing, I thought, or planning the events of the next day.
“Good night, everybody.” I leaned over to turn off the light.
Suddenly they appeared next to me in the bed. They were wearing pajamas just like mine. They were smiling. Their fingers had jam stains on them in exactly the same spots as mine.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.
“Move over,” said the self on my left.
“Scoot,” said the one on the right.
“Move over yourself. This is my bed.”
“It’s our bed,” they said together.
I laughed loudly.
“You have to leave,” said the one on the left.
“Right now.”
“What kind of a joke is this?” I asked.
“No joke.”
“Why should we joke? We’re very serious.”
They reached across me as if I weren’t even there and began to whisper to each other.
“This is my bed. Get out!” I cried.
“Who’s talking?” one of them asked.
“I don’t hear anyone talking.”
“Don’t see anyone, either.”
“No one here but us.”
I stood up on the bed. “Cut it out! Now!”
They rolled toward the center of the bed, shoving against me.
I tried to push them back, but my legs and arms suddenly had no strength.
One of them lifted his finger and flicked me off the bed. I flew to the other side of the room and landed in the corner where they used to spend the nights. My body felt light, weightless, empty.
“What’s happening!?” I was breathless. I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes.
“Do you hear something?” asked one. He was leaning toward the other, smiling.
“Not me. Just another boring quiet school night.”
I couldn’t seem to control my body anymore. “Hey!” I yelled.
“It’s nice, just the two of us here,” said one of them, licking a spot of jam off his finger.
“I’m here!” I cried. “Can’t you see me?”
“It’s good to have peace and quiet for a change.”
“No disturbances.”
“No annoying noises in the background.”
“I’m not a noise! I belong here! This is my room!”
They looked at each other, sighed, and closed their eyes.
“Good night,” they said to each other. “Good night.”
“I’m Jeremy!” I called. “Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy!”
No one answered me.
I rushed to the mirror. But it only reflected two boys wearing pajamas, with jam on their fingers, who lay with eyes closed on either side of my bed.
“What about me? Where am I?”
The surface of the mirror rippled as if my image were hiding somewhere deep inside.
There was a knock on the door, and my mother came into the room.
“Mom!” I cried. “Mom! Help! What’s happening to me?”
“Good night, twins!” my mother said. “Shut off that light! We don’t want you tired for school again, do we?”
“No, Mother,” said one of them.
“We’ll go right to sleep,” said the other.
“Mom …,” I cried in a voice that sounded high and tinny.
“Sweet dreams, Jerry,” said my mother. “And you, too, Marty.” She bent over the bed and kissed them good night. Then she turned off the light and tiptoed out of the room.
VI.
I call them every day now. When they pick up the phone, there’s a humming sound, a low vibration on the other end. Usually they hang up right away. But they’re beginning to forget me—who I am and what I want.
The day will come when they will wonder: Who is trying to reach us? Then they will stay on the phone and listen. They will be frightened, then intrigued. My voice—rusty and trembling—will come over the lines. Once I have spoken the first words, I will start to take back my life.
7
STUCK
I’m stuck between two worlds. You might think this is rather a tight place to be, but actually I have room to maneuver. And on certain days I can see both worlds quite clearly, though never at the same time.
Where I am—it seems to be some kind of resting place—is a small room. The walls are a yellowish color. There is a stove where I can cook and a bed that I lie down on when I’m tired.
There are two windows on opposite sides of the room. Through one I see a grassy meadow; through the other, city streets thronged with people.
There is no one in this room but me.
In the morning I get up and make my bed. I take milk and eggs out of the refrigerator and cook a little breakfast. There is always food in the refrigerator—not much, it’s true, and always the same—but I’m never very hungry.
When breakfast is done, I do my exercises. I clean the room—though it never seems to get dirty—and it’s time for lunch. A sandwich, a glass of juice, a biscuit. Then I nap.
When I wake up, I go to one window and then I go to the other one. Depending on what I see, I may spend hours or minutes at each one. Sometimes I run from one window to the other, back and forth, almost madly. Exhausted, I lie down until supper and think about what I have seen.
How long have I been here? Forever, I think. I don’t remember anything that came before. Occasionally I get out. Not all of me, of course. Sometimes I press my hand against the window and feel it giving way, slowly dissolving under my
touch. With a little more pressure I can wiggle a finger free, or even shove an elbow or a foot into one world or another for a few minutes.
Once I put my hand through the green window and felt the sun warming my skin. A breeze came into my room, and I heard birds chirping and the sound of lawn mowers cutting grass.
For the rest of the day I felt the sunlight, as though a bright room had opened up inside me.
Another time I thrust my head out the city window. The air was a sooty gray. Pigeons circled a marble building with busts of men and women on it. People rushed past me. I tried to talk to them, but they didn’t hear me. One person saw me—an old woman with a chalk-white face who was brushing her teeth over the gutter. She muttered something to herself and then turned away.
Years ago the room was different. It was plainer. The bed was a mattress on the floor. The table was smaller. There were no windows in the walls.
One day I began to scratch and scrape at the walls. At first I used my fingernails, then a piece of wood, then a knife. Paint chips fell to the floor as I scraped off layer after layer of paint. The chips clung to my skin, embedded themselves in my scalp, worked their way under my fingernails. They collected in piles around my feet. Yet, no matter how much I scraped, there was always another layer to uncover.
I remember the morning I first saw the windows. For a long time I stood between them, looking from one to the other, half expecting them to dissolve, evaporate, disappear as mysteriously as they had appeared. I walked toward them with slow, hesitant steps. I didn’t know where to go first.
But finally I touched one. I remember how it felt—a smooth, cool surface, like water, only firmer to the touch. And then I looked. I saw movement, color, and light. The forms were indistinct, but as I stared at them they slowly became clearer. Day after day I spent more and more hours with my face pressed against one window or the other—until, one day, I don’t know why, I pressed my hand firmly against the window and it gave way. Just a few inches, enough to push my fingers through. Then I breathed the air of a new world.
I haven’t been able to get out for a while—not so much as a fingertip through a window—and I’m beginning to wonder if this room is the only world. Perhaps those other two are mirages or even pictures painted cleverly on the walls. Have I hallucinated the sunlight and the old woman?
In which case, I am not stuck between two worlds—but trapped in this one.