by Robyn Bavati
The airport was crowded, and some of the passengers who’d been on her flight were in the midst of emotional reunions with family or friends. There were a number of middle-aged women who more or less fit the description of Simone’s mum, and Hannah wondered which of them was Harriet. Simone hadn’t been able to show her any photos of her mum—she didn’t have any in her Facebook albums, and Harriet wasn’t on Facebook herself.
“How will I recognize her?” Hannah had asked. “What if I can’t figure out which one she is?”
“You won’t have a problem,” Simone had assured her. “She’ll be the one calling my name so loudly that everyone will think you’re deaf.”
“Simone! Simone!” A woman in a pale blue, short-sleeved dress buttoned to the collar was waving a hand above the crowd as she hurried toward her, and even when Hannah acknowledged her wave, she continued calling, “Simone! Simone!”
Hannah smiled to herself. Simone’s description had been spot-on. Not one to shy away from attention, she let out a yell to rival Harriet’s. “Hi, Mum! I’m over here.” The word “mum” in this context sounded strange, and the moment it left her lips, Hannah felt as if she’d betrayed Vanessa.
But there was no time for regrets, for Harriet was moving quickly toward her. She clasped Hannah briefly, pecked her cheek, and stepped away. “Come on then, we’d better go.”
That was it? That was the grand reunion? Hannah couldn’t help feeling a little let down.
“Now, tell me all about Candance,” Simone’s mum began.
Simone sat in her assigned seat by the window and gazed out into the darkness, contemplating what lay ahead.
She had left Melbourne as Simone and would return as Hannah. To that end, she would have to adopt some of Hannah’s passion and resolve. How could she be more like her identical twin? She thought of the acting classes she’d taken at school. “It’s not enough,” one teacher had said, “to act the character. You must become the character.”
Simone had spent three weeks with Hannah and had come to know her. They were so similar in some ways, and so different in others … Above all, Hannah was outgoing, friendly, and fearless. What does that feel like? Simone
wondered. Can I access those qualities? Are they buried inside me? Do they belong to a person I might still become?
She visualized herself behaving like Hannah, but when the plane landed and she followed the other passengers into an airport swarming with people, somehow she was just Simone
—shy, reserved, and incredibly nervous. Trying to calm herself, she took a deep breath and looked around.
“Hannah, my love!” The booming voice could be easily heard above the crowd.
Simone looked up to see a large, jolly-looking man striding toward her, and a moment later she was enveloped in an enormous bear hug.
Simone had seen photos of Hannah’s dad, but they hadn’t prepared her for the actual size of him. It took her a moment before she had the presence of mind to hug him back. She hadn’t guessed quite how enormous he’d be and how small she’d feel when crushed against his massive chest. He was like a friendly giant, with balding hair, a dark bushy beard, and thick-rimmed glasses. His larger-than-life presence was a shock, and Simone hoped he couldn’t feel her body trembling. As she stood in his arms, the powerful scent of aftershave—or was it cologne?—assailed her nostrils.
“And what about a hug for me?” said the smiling woman by his side. This must be Vanessa, Hannah’s mum. She was slight and well-groomed, with light, inquiring eyes, and she wore a touch of some pleasant perfume.
Simone embraced her tentatively while Vanessa held her tightly and then stepped back, holding both Simone’s hands in her own. “You look wonderful, darling. Manfred, doesn’t she look wonderful?”
And somehow they’d reached the baggage claim—though Simone couldn’t remember actually moving—and Manfred was plucking Hannah’s suitcase off the conveyor belt as if it were no heavier than a handbag. Then the three of them were walking toward the exit, and it wasn’t long before Hannah’s suitcase had been placed in the trunk of a navy BMW, and Simone was sitting comfortably in the back seat with the familiar lights of Melbourne flashing by.
twenty-one
From the street, the house looked tiny. Intermittent streetlights cast a glow that gave just enough light to distinguish one dwelling from the next. Simone’s was one in a row of identical homes. Their front doors were only a couple of meters from the road. There were no large boulevard strips or sprawling front lawns, and no carports or garages. Harriet parked a little way down the street, and Hannah lugged Simone’s suitcase along the footpath and up two steps to the Starks’ front door.
“Pop the suitcase in your room, Simone, and come and have a cup of tea.”
Hannah made her way along the narrow hallway, sniffing at the strange, cabbage-like odor that suffused the air. Strange how you could describe a home in detail, as Simone had—the exact location and number of rooms—yet fail to capture its very essence, which was indefinable and had something to do with smell, and atmosphere, and age.
Simone’s room was the second door on the left. It was as neat as Hannah had imagined it would be, and very small, with cream-painted walls and wooden floorboards covered by a pastel rug. There was a desk, a chair, and two small shelves. One shelf housed a small collection of books. The other was home to a few ornaments and a couple of photos.
Hannah put the suitcase down and went to take a closer look. The photos showed Simone with friends. Hannah could have sworn the snapshots were of herself—except they couldn’t be, as she didn’t know the other people in them, and Simone was wearing clothes that Hannah didn’t own and had never worn.
Simone’s bed was immaculately made up with a pretty set of floral sheets. A small stuffed teddy bear lay on the pillow, and on the wall above the bed was a poster of two ballet stars dancing a pas-de-deux. It was signed, To Simone, love Mum.
Hannah now hoisted the suitcase onto the bed and flung it open, then wandered over to the wardrobe, which was small and painted cream to match the walls. Inside, the clothes were perfectly folded. Hannah sighed. She’d never match this standard of neatness.
Suddenly, Hannah missed Simone with an intensity she’d rarely felt before, and the thought of sleeping in her room was strangely comforting. It was the next best thing to being with her.
“Simone!” Harriet’s call interrupted her thoughts. “I’ve made your tea.”
Hannah left the unpacking and went to join Simone’s mum in the old-fashioned kitchen.
“You’re looking well,” Harriet said. “Something’s different
—have you cut your hair?”
“Yeah, just a trim. What do you think?”
“Nice, said Harriet. “You know my rule—if it’s long enough to make a bun, it’s fine by me. Now, drink your tea before it gets cold.”
“Thanks,” said Hannah, as Harriet indicated the mug on the kitchen table. She took a sip and put the cup down.
“What’s wrong?”
“Uh … nothing. Just, it’s a little bitter. Could I have sugar?”
“Sugar!” Harriet exclaimed, as if Hannah had requested poison. “Since when do you take sugar?”
“That’s how they served the tea at Candance. I’m used to it now.”
“You know we don’t keep sugar in this house.”
Hannah frowned. “Could we buy some?”
“Buy some? You’re a dancer, Simone. Sugar’s the last thing you need. You know what I think about wasted calories. And you’ve always had such good eating habits. Don’t start developing bad ones now.”
Hannah could think of several things she might have said in reply: Shouldn’t that be up to me to? Why do YOU care what goes into my mouth? You can’t control every aspect of my life.
But she didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Harriet on the very first day. And i
f Simone had to put up with Harriet’s rules, it was only fair that she did too.
Lying in Simone’s bed a little later, Hannah tried to imagine what it would have been like living her whole life with a woman as controlling as Harriet Stark. It wasn’t just that Harriet tried to micro-manage her daughter’s life. It was more that she lacked … what was it? Warmth, perhaps? Harriet hadn’t even asked if she was hungry—unlike her own mum, who would have offered her a sandwich, or chocolate cake, or scones with cream.
Hannah thought longingly of her family at home. They might be only a twenty-minute drive away, but they might as well have been in another country.
Suddenly, she felt very alone. Up until yesterday she’d had a proper family: two parents, a brother, a dog, and even—most recently—a wonderful sister. Now she had only a domineering and highly strung woman for company.
Still, the day after tomorrow, she’d begin her training at the VSD …
The sound of a Chopin concerto filtered under her door, with Harriet humming along. Hannah snuggled deeper under the covers, and as she waited for Simone to call, she imagined performing a beautiful adage, her arms soft, her extensions magnificent, her back erect and statuesque.
twenty-two
It was almost midnight when the car turned into the driveway of Hannah’s sprawling Armadale home. A single lamp lit up the entrance to the front door, but they drove past it and entered the house through a door off the garage. A large, barking Labrador jumped up and slobbered all over Simone, sending her toppling into Manfred.
“Kimmy missed you,” said Vanessa, laughing. “He was such a misery bag after you left.”
“Calm down, boy,” Manfred boomed cheerfully, “or you’ll knock her over.”
Simone reached out a tentative hand to pat the animal. Then, realizing that Hannah would probably match the canine’s greeting with equal fervor, she put both arms around him and ruffled his fur.
When the dog had settled down, Simone saw she was in an open kitchen that spilled into a large and comfortable living room. Despite the barking, laughing, raised voices, TV blaring, and door slamming, Hannah’s brother Adam was asleep on the couch.
Following her gaze, Vanessa said, “He was determined to wait up for you. I just knew he wouldn’t last—not after riding his bike and swimming all day.” Her expression was soft, her voice filled with affection. Then she turned her attention back to Simone, who was still surveying her surroundings, taking in the size of the room and the fact that it was warm and welcoming. “Home always looks different when you’ve been away.”
“It does,” Simone agreed.
“When things are too familiar you just stop seeing them, but time away makes you open your eyes.”
Simone gave Vanessa a wistful smile.
“So, how was Candance?”
“Uh … great!” said Simone.
“You haven’t said a word about it, and I thought you’d be talking our ears off.”
Simone chuckled. She could just imagine Hannah talking their ears off.
“Are you hungry, darling? Did you eat on the plane?”
Simone shook her head. Now that Vanessa had brought her attention to the subject of food, she realized that the pleasant aroma she’d noticed before was in fact the smell of freshly baked cake.
“No you’re not hungry, or no you didn’t eat on the plane?”
“Both,” said Simone.
“I spent the afternoon baking. You’ve got a choice be-tween poppy-seed swirl, orange cake, and pecan pie.”
Simone shook her head. “Thanks, but … maybe tomorrow.”
“No to cake? You must be even more exhausted than you look. Why don’t you go up to bed?”
Simone nodded, then mumbled good night. Manfred picked up Hannah’s suitcase and crossed the kitchen in just a few strides. Half in a daze, Simone followed him down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and into Hannah’s room. He put the suitcase down with a flourish and a “There you are, Ma’am,” and once again Simone was enfolded in this giant’s embrace.
And then Manfred was gone, leaving behind his lingering scent. Simone was alone in Hannah’s room.
It was about three times the size of her room at home, and far more luxurious. Wall-to-wall-carpet—the same rich green carpet that lined the staircase and the upstairs hall—covered the floor, and the walls were painted lemon and white. The curtains too were lemon and white, with a delicate pattern of tiny green leaves. Five shelves and a massive desk took up almost an entire wall. One shelf housed textbooks, including some French ones. There were also a few books in a language Simone didn’t recognize. Possibly Hebrew. A couple of those seemed to come with translations. She pulled one out and looked at it. The English title on the front said The Jewish Book of Prayer. The foreign language title was on the back, except that the front seemed to be where the book ended, and vice versa.
She put it back and looked at the books on the other shelves. Most were novels, and many bore the imprint of Seagull Press. Simone ran a hand along their spines, avoiding the temptation to read their titles or she’d be up all night. She sat down for a moment at Hannah’s desk, which was covered in knickknacks, photos, and souvenirs. Not for the first time, she wished she’d shared her sister’s life.
Pushing that thought aside, she began to unpack. Hannah’s wardrobe was in a state of chaos. Simone emptied all the drawers and closets, then folded each item individually. Half an hour later, the wardrobe bore a passing resemblance to her wardrobe at home, and Simone felt a little calmer.
She showered in Hannah’s ensuite bathroom and put on Hannah’s baby doll pajamas, which were crumpled but clean. Then she slipped into Hannah’s bed, which was bigger and more comfortable than the one she was used to. The lacy white quilt cover, with its pink satin trimming, had a matching pillowcase, and Simone thought they were very pretty. She rested her head on the plumped up pillow, clutching Hannah’s iPhone.
A handsome Hollywood actor smiled down at her from posters on the wall above. Suddenly Simone was hungry and wished she had accepted a slice of cake. She wouldn’t go downstairs and ask—not when she’d have to confront Vanessa and Manfred again. Not that Hannah’s parents hadn’t been wonderful. It was just that keeping up the pretence was a strain, and now she needed some time alone.
A little while later, footsteps and murmured voices passed her door. Manfred and Vanessa were going to bed. Soon the strip of light under her door went dark.
At last, the house was completely quiet, and when Simone
was sure that everyone had gone to sleep, she rang the familiar number of her own mobile phone.
“Sim! How are you? I’ve been waiting ages for your call.”
And although it had only been a few hours since she’d last seen Hannah, Simone almost cried because it felt so good to hear her voice.
twenty-three
Hannah opened the bedroom door and peered along the narrow hallway, wondering whether Harriet was already up. The bathroom door creaked open and Hannah withdrew into the bedroom just as Harriet emerged. She held her breath and listened, waiting till the sound of footsteps passed her door. Then she grabbed a pair of Simone’s shorts and a T-shirt and hurried into the bathroom to shower and change, not yet comfortable enough in her new surroundings to laze around in her pajamas until after breakfast, as she would have at home.
By the time she entered the kitchen, Harriet had gone to work. She’d left a note on the kitchen table: Back by six. Call if you need anything. Love, Mum.
Perfect. Hannah could explore the house and neighborhood openly, with no interruptions. As she hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Canberra the night before, she’d start with the kitchen.
Dishes were stacked neatly in the kitchen cupboards, along with glasses and mugs, pots and pans. Cutlery was in the top drawer under the sink, and food was in a cupboard beside the fridge—two boxes of cereal a
nd one of oats, a few tins of tuna and sardines, two cans of baked beans, a tin of rice cakes, one unopened jar of pickles, a box of tea bags, and a jar half-full of instant coffee. Next to the microwave was a bread bin, containing a single loaf of whole-grain bread.
The closest thing to sugar was a pot of honey. There were no cookies or cake, and no flour for baking. Hannah opened the fridge, hoping its contents would be generous enough to make up for the lack of a decent pantry, but it held nothing but a carton of milk, a half-finished container of cottage cheese, plain yogurt, six eggs, and half a melon.
There was something frugal—stingy, even—about this kitchen, Hannah concluded, remembering the well-stocked pantry at home. She let out a small sigh of resignation and helped herself to a serving of Sultana Bran and a slice of melon, then washed her dishes, returned the kitchen to the immaculate state in which she’d found it, and wandered over to the living room.
She hadn’t seen this room before. In contrast to the kitchen—with its sparse furnishings and nothing but a rather ordinary calendar hanging on the wall—this room, though small, was densely furnished, with comfortable couches in muted florals on a thick cream carpet. But what really caught Hannah’s attention were the magnificent photos, which covered almost every available inch of wall space. All were of Simone in full dance costume, mostly in some sort of dance pose—an arabesque, an attitude en pointe, a relevé with her arms in fifth, a grand jeté in which she seemed to be flying.
That could be me, Hannah thought as she studied a particularly beautiful photo of Simone leaping through the air, legs stretched and toes pointed, arms soft and head erect. They could all be me.
In fact, if she hadn’t known better, Hannah might have thought they were her. She felt a pang of envy, and wished she could believe that she too were capable of such perfection.
In some of the photos, Simone looked as if she were about to go onstage, or had just finished a performance. In every one of them, her face was made up, her hair was immaculate, and she was artfully positioned for the camera.