by L. V. Hay
‘Remember, boy: a man ain’t worth much,’ Maggie had said every week, straightening his tie for church. Ana would witness Maggie brush imaginary fluff from his collar, then lick her thumb and rub it across his cheek, shining him up like prize silver. ‘But a son? Now, that’s somebody.’
Ana watched Matthew’s gaze stray to the clock now. Almost midnight.
‘Where are Mum and Dad?’ he asked.
Ana drained a second glassful, poured a refill. ‘They’ve been out since six.’
‘Doing what?’
‘What they always do: arguing.’
Ana gulped back the liquor, grimaced. Their whole childhood, their parents’ marriage had been a never-ending battlefield. Yet to the outside world, the Temples’ was the perfect partnership. It made her sick to her stomach. She’d spent so many hours listening to their mother berate their father. She Who Must Obeyed had been Ana’s name for Maggie. And once upon a time, it had been Ana and Matt against her. But now Matthew was a foot soldier, one of Maggie’s underlings. Willing to do whatever their mother said. He would never choose his sister, not anymore, no matter how much Ana begged. He couldn’t. He was too desperate for Maggie’s approval.
Ana turned, and the room swam as the alcohol took effect. She wobbled, felt like she was all knees and elbows, like a day-old calf. She sat heavily on the armrest next to Matthew then leant her forehead against his, putting one hand to his face.
But while they were physically as close as they could get, she could still feel the distance that now existed between them. It was their mother’s doing; the moment, all those years ago, she’d instructed Matthew to tear the newborn James from his sister’s grasp and to give him over to her, she had severed their bond. Pain bloomed in Ana’s chest at the memory: the nasty ball of betrayal and hatred, of all-encompassing loss.
‘Let’s go, Ana,’ Matthew murmured. ‘Get Ivy. Let’s just get out of here. Never come back.’ He rested his head on her shoulder.
She squeezed his cheek. ‘What about…?’
He took a deep breath. ‘We can take James, too.’
Ana moved her face from his. ‘You just can’t accept her, can you?’ She affected a bitter laugh; but there was no humour in it. ‘You’re the most fucked-up of all of us!’
Ana felt, rather than saw, the dark fury that bristled through her twin, then. His face still curiously impassive, he grabbed her arms. His fingers pinched her skin. Shocked, she dropped her glass. It didn’t break on the carpet, but she heard the whisky slosh onto their mother’s £2000 hearth rug.
Just as quickly, Matthew let go of her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck you, Matt.’ Ana staggered from the armrest of the chair and turned, stopping dead where she was.
Maggie Temple stood in the doorway.
‘Kids.’ Their mother’s voice was breathy, almost excited. But her face was pinched, drawn, her pupils dilated. She crossed briskly to the bar as if to make a drink but she fiddled with the glasses instead. Her back was to the twins, but Ana still saw that her movements were oddly skittish. Not like her mother at all. ‘Something’s happened…’
‘I knew it!’ Ana erupted. The pressure inside her burst out in an uncharacteristic sob. ‘It was Jenny who fell on the railway. Wasn’t it?’
Maggie turned now, eyes wide. Her expression was slack for a moment as genuine surprise crossed her features. She recovered quickly. ‘No. God, no. Don’t worry about that, darling…!’
Maggie stepped forwards and tried to take Ana in her arms, but even scared out of her wits, Ana was repelled by her mother’s touch. She pushed her away roughly, uninterested in comfort from this woman.
‘Then where is she?’ Ana cried, backing away still. ‘Has Dad found her?’
Maggie glanced across to Matthew now, taking in his calm demeanour. ‘You didn’t find … Jenny … either? All night?’
Maggie’s words hung heavy in the air; Ana could sense expectation in them. A suspicion lodged itself in her mind. Ana sent a demanding glance of her own at her twin, but he was as unreadable as ever.
‘No,’ Matthew confirmed.
A ghost of a smile appeared on their mother’s red lips for an instant. But then it was gone, replaced by that faux concern she was so good at projecting. Maggie sat on the sofa, beckoning both twins over, attempting to gather them close to her.
Matthew went to her, unquestioning as always. Desperate not to be in the dark any longer, Ana perched next to Maggie, allowing her mother’s hand to rest on her shoulder. If Ana had to fake affection in order to get information, so be it.
‘India Rutledge is dead,’ said Maggie.
Surprise made Ana sit up straight. ‘That was her – on the telly?’
Maggie affected a sad expression: wistful downturned lips, and somehow even her eyes looked watery. Ana marvelled momentarily at what her mother was able to do with her face.
‘Yes, it was India who fell,’ said Maggie, her voice soft, yet steely. ‘You know she and … Jenny … would meet at the station, sometimes? We don’t know what happened; perhaps they argued…’
The inference swelled into the space between the three of them.
‘No. No, there must be a mistake.’ Ana shook her head with vigour, as if that might dispel the thought. ‘Jenny wouldn’t have hurt India. She couldn’t have!’
Maggie took Ana in her arms. Weakened with the news, Ana let her this time.
‘I know, darling,’ said her mother. ‘But it’s even more important now … for us to keep her safe. We have to make sure no one suspects. Don’t you agree, Matt?’
Her tone was flat. Ana saw Matthew nod, automatic. Maggie smiled gently, beckoning him closer to her. He shuffled closer to the two women, placing his arms around their bodies, the protector. The role he’d been groomed for.
Ana inhaled, taking in their mother’s cloying vanilla perfume. Maggie wore her usual expensive clothes: a red jumper dress, dark maroon boots. Her newly relaxed and lacquered hair was coming undone, a length of it trailing where she’d tucked it behind her right ear.
Ana frowned a little at the dishevelment. Not like her mother at all. And now she noted that the pashmina around Maggie’s shoulders did not match her dress. As with everything else in her life, Maggie was fastidious about accessorising. But this time, it was as if she’d grabbed the first thing that came to hand as she’d rushed out of the house. Ana had never known her mother do such a thing. Over a lifetime, Maggie Temple had kept the lot of them waiting, sometimes for hours. Ana recalled loitering irritated in the hall, trying to leave as Maggie had swapped scarves and hats and pashminas and earrings that ‘didn’t quite go’.
‘Blue and green, should never be seen!’ she’d recite, her voice light and singsong. Then, adding her own embellishment: ‘Orange and red, you’re better off dead!’
Ana took a sharp breath.
Dead.
Seventy
I become aware of the crashing of trolleys, a buzzer going somewhere. ‘Why did you tell me and Jayden you were alone if you were with Matthew?’
But as I voice the question, I put two and two together. A vision of the playboy back on the bandstand the night of the Spring Ball, shrieking ‘Jenny who?’ springs into my mind’s eye.
‘Jayden doesn’t know, does he?’
Ana shakes her head. I whistle through my teeth. I can’t believe they’ve managed to keep Jenny under wraps for so long. I take the plunge with the next piece of the puzzle. Though my old friend would never admit it, she must have wondered where Jenny got to that night. To have stayed quiet, she must have thought it possible the teenager did really push India, like Maggie had insinuated.
‘You knew – about my sister and Jenny hanging out, didn’t you?’
Ana averts her gaze from mine. ‘I was glad … she had a friend. I thought she had her best chance with her. India was always so brave.’ She flashes me a watery smile. ‘She sent me home, didn’t she? That’s why she did the whole JoJo thing – to split me and Jayden up.
She wanted me back home at Coy Ponds, so I could help get Jenny out of there. But I didn’t do enough. I tried, but Matt was always one step ahead. The best I could do was help smuggle Jenny out, so she could go to the Prince Albert once in a while. Meet India. Have some kind of a life.’
But I’m not angry with my old friend anymore. ‘You didn’t know what your parents were truly capable of. None of us did.’ As I link my hand with hers, something occurs to me: ‘You wouldn’t tell me you were with Matt the night India died … because you wanted to be sure he would go down instead of Jenny. I’m right, aren’t I? If it came to it – if the police tried to arrest Jenny, saying she’d killed India – you would have sacrificed Matt, wouldn’t you?’
Ana hesitates, then sighs. ‘Yes.’
Just as quickly, the shame is replaced by steely determination as she meets my eye. I can’t deny Ana’s logic. It seems almost appropriate, that Matt, Jenny’s jailer, should take the fall. He owes the teenager. On cue, the double doors open and Matthew appears, coffees in hand. He falters as he sees me and his sister together. Stricken, he just stands there, his gaze locked with mine.
‘Poppy. I’m so sorry…’ He stares, downcast, at his shoes.
He seems small, diminished somehow. Little-boy-like. Perhaps he’s always been this way, I just didn’t see it. Pain spears my chest. I want to scream at him, Why did you tell Maggie that India knew about Jenny? You signed her death warrant!
But I hold up a hand. He wants clemency, but that is beyond me. I accept he can’t have known how far his parents would go, but even so, he had a part in my sister’s murder. I can’t forget – or forgive – that.
Matthew nods and retreats back through the doors, giving us some space. I turn my attentions back to Ana, squeeze her shoulder.
‘You get to be Mum, now. No interference. Jenny’s yours, at last.’
As I say the words, Ana’s demeanour brightens, as if she’s needed someone to confirm this. She will be lost for a while, trying to make sense of her new freedom. But I know, deep down, she can handle it.
‘Can I?’ I indicate the side room we’re sitting near, seeking her permission – her first act as Jenny’s real mother.
Ana rubs a hand across her face, then nods. Before she can change her mind, I make my way into the room.
Seventy-one
The teenager lies sideways on the bed, still fully clothed, shoes on, curled on the mattress like a fallen baby bird. I make my way round the side of the bed. I seat myself in the chair by the scratched Formica bedside cabinet.
‘Hello, Jenny.’
There’s a plastic jug of water on top of the cabinet, a selection of buttons and cables on the wall. The blinds are pulled halfway down the window, the waning sunlight behind us.
‘Stupid question, but how are you feeling?’
Jenny shrugs. She blinks, yawning in an exaggerated fashion. I can relate: her eyelids will feel heavy, a combination of shock and meds.
I reach forwards for her hand and she lets me take it. I expect her skin to feel like Matthew’s, calloused and scratchy. But I couldn’t be more wrong. Jenny’s fingers are tapered and skinny, her nails perfectly manicured. Of course.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I blurt the words out. It’s a fruitless quest to make myself feel better.
But she neither blames me nor condones me. Jenny simply shrugs: Whatever. ‘It is what it is.’
I process Jenny’s resigned anger. Every one of us is culpable. We all failed India and Jenny. We weren’t there for them. Instead we shut them down, kept them apart, denied their realities. That’s for us to live with.
Only India tried to show Jenny she was there for her. She broke down the Temples’ secrets and lies, piece by piece. India didn’t even hesitate when she realised the tangled web included our family as well. Maggie talked about ‘The Right Thing’, but that’s too often a misnomer for people’s own rigid thought patterns, supposed moralities and self-interest. India pursued the truth and didn’t waver, even when it took her places she can’t have wanted to go – like betraying JoJo in order to split Ana and Jayden up.
Now I have to do the same. I can accept it now. It was my choice to leave. I should have stayed. After the cancer, it’s clear Matthew retreated into himself. Maybe I could have helped India and Jenny. Instead I ran away.
A deep yearning rises in me. If only Mum told Tim or even Alan, not Maggie. Would India be alive, now? Possibly. Probably, even. Mum told only Maggie about India, trusting the other woman to inform Alan. There’s no way Alan would have killed India, another daughter, just to keep his grandson’s secret.
Every one of us has unwittingly danced to Maggie’s twisted tune. Maggie must have seen a way of protecting James in her own warped way and having revenge on Alan for his infidelity. Her gloating words: ‘Two birds, one stone’. The logic, though perverse, is clear.
‘I need to ask you something,’ I say to Jenny, who regards me with her big brown eyes, so like the twins’. ‘Did my mother know about you and India meeting up? Hanging out together?’
The teenager sighs. I dread her answer, but try not to betray it on my face. I need her to tell me the truth, not what I want to hear.
‘No,’ Jenny says.
Thank God.
Fresh air floods through my lungs. Jenny smiles, reassured, too. I can finally understand now my mother’s guilt, her behaviour after my sister’s death. She imploded inwards in her grief, unable to tell her husband the real reason why. Mum had been on the run from the truth for nearly twenty-five years, pretending her daughter was theirs, unable even to seek solace from India’s real father. She must have thought she was the only one.
Poor Mum.
Poor Tim too, having to pick up all the slack. I hope they can make it back to each other. They have to. So much has been lost already.
I lean forward and put my arms around Jenny. She does not respond at first, just stays limp. Then she hugs me back, her arms around my neck. As I squeeze my eyes shut, India appears in my mind, a teen again, those black kohl eyes, that flippant smirk.
But my sister is gone forever. I can’t undo that, or make up for what I didn’t do for my own flesh and blood. As I move back from the embrace, I see Jenny has drifted off again. I place her arms back in the bed, plump the pillow behind her head. Devoid of make-up, without the trappings of her goth get-up, she looks like a child.
I smooth a hand across Jenny’s forehead, almost maternal. I kiss the top of her head. She does not stir.
For a second, I see my sister in Jenny’s place. Her hair falling in soft waves around her porcelain skin, she looks peaceful; at rest.
I am not Sleeping Beauty now; India is, that perfect princess.
‘You’re free now,’ I whisper.
Epilogue
So, tonight I saw you. The REAL you.
I can’t believe you’ve had to keep Jenny hidden so long; I think I always knew she was there … just waiting. James was the caterpillar, waiting to turn into Jenny, the beautiful butterfly. I’m sorry you’ve had to do that. Your family is the one with the problem. NOT you. You don’t need anyone’s permission to live the life you need to. Unlike your home-life, YOU set the rules now.
I will admit, there were times over the years I had questions. But I kept quiet, believing you would tell me when you were ready. And you did – and for that, I am so grateful. Thank you for trusting me. I love you.
People might say biology is everything, but don’t listen to them. If that were true, then people with cancer genes would kill themselves … They’d say there is no point in waiting for your body to flick the switch at some random point in the future. Just get it over with!! But they don’t. Instead, they do whatever it takes to avoid getting ill and get on living the life they have, because what is the alternative?
Jenny’s got some stuff to learn yet: that first blouse did not suit her! I can’t remember having laughed so much over pussy bows with someone. But hey, that’s fashion – experimenting. I didn’t expec
t her to be goth, or punky, but that’s cool, why not??
She can do whatever you want when she’s with me. I think black looks awesome on you. Jenny can keep her stuff at my house, so SHE doesn’t confiscate or destroy it. She Who Must Be Obeyed can’t take anything more from you now, not on my watch!
(I know you said we should get a baby-naming book – but I think your first choice, Jenny, was the best! A shiny new life calls for a shining name.)
It’ll be alright now, I promise.
India xx
POSTED BY @1NDIAsummer, 13 November 2016
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Acknowledgements
I’m so lucky to have gone on this journey in writing and publishing The Other Twin, so I’ll try and keep this brief and not descend into complete ickiness!
Thank you so much to my fabulous agent, Hattie Grunewald, who saw something in this story back in 2015 and gave it the benefit of her formidable expertise and talent; thanks also to everyone at Blake Friedmann, but especially Julian Friedmann, Isobel Dixon and the wonderful, late Carol Blake, who championed it as well. My gratitude also goes to Karen Sullivan and West Camel at Orenda Books, whose enthusiasm, flair and sharp eyes have elevated this book to the next level. You are awesome!