by Mary Carter
“Because I’m hearing,” Kelly said. Lacey frowned. Meow, meow, meow, Kelly mouthed.
“Oh.” Lacey turned around. She looked in the rearview mirror. “Shhh,” she said.
“Real effective,” Kelly said. “Can the poor thing breathe?”
“Of course. It’s a cat bag.” Kelly leaned over the seat and turned the bag around. Green eyes glowed behind a netted window in the side.
“We’re cat-nappers,” Kelly said. “We can’t do this.”
“Calm down,” Lacey said. “We’re not going to waterboard him.”
“This isn’t right,” Kelly said. “This isn’t right.”
“And lying to me my entire life is? Keeping my twin a secret?”
“You have a point.” Kelly looked back at the cat again, and shook her head. Meow, meow, meow, she mouthed again. “You’re lucky you’re deaf.” Then a little smile played across her face.
“What?” Lacey said.
“I wish the other kids were here to see this,” Kelly said. “She’s going to freak.” Her smile turned into an all-out grin. “She’s going to fucking freak.” They smiled at each other, and just like that, they were mischievous little girls again, creeping and giggling in forbidden shadows, clasping their hands in fright, not at the funny shapes things took on in the night, but in the sheer awe of what they might do, the taste of the trouble they could cause. It was then and there, in that car, racing down the road with a kidnapped cat (meow, meow, meow) and a one-legged mother of six who was laughing so hard she had to lean forward and clutch the dash to catch her breath, that Lacey decided she loved Kelly a little bit after all. Just not like a sister. Not even close to the way she thinks she could have, would have, should have loved a sister.
Chapter 7
Lacey sat at her kitchen table, scissors in hand, scouring a magazine. Blackie and Rookie sat atop the table, inches from her face, engaged in a mano a mano, feline-to-canine stare-down. The old teak table where Lacey sat could handle their claws; every etch gave it character. Over the years the table had been used for eating, writing, painting, and on a couple of wild nights when Alan and Lacey were first dating, lovemaking. From where she sat, Lacey had a view of the kitchen counter, so clean Lacey would lick it from one end to the other without the slightest hesitation. After returning from Margaret’s cluttered apartment, Lacey turned into a cleaning Tasmanian devil, leaving nothing on the blue-tiled countertop but the coffeemaker, two clay mugs, and a triple-slotted stainless steel toaster.
From where she sat, she could see out the screen door to their enclosed porch; the daisies from a few days ago were just starting to droop their petal heads. Was it just a few days ago Lacey had discovered a bomb in her mailbox and dodged a marriage proposal? The kitchen wall to her left, which Lacey and Alan painted three times before she found the perfect shade of sage, held a large Ikea clock and the first painting she’d ever given Alan: the ubiquitous bowl of fruit, except instead of boring bananas and pitiful pears, Lacey used mangos, kiwis, and plums, experimenting with shades of greens and reds and purples against a black, white, and gray background, as if the ripe fruit had been left on a forgotten countertop in an abandoned building. And although she’d greatly improved her technique over the years, it was still one of her favorite paintings, embedded with the kind of protective nostalgia parents felt for their first child—
Twins, twins, twins, twins, twins. Who popped out first? Who were their parents? Who adopted Monica, what kind of—
She didn’t realize Alan was in the room until he tapped her on the shoulder. Startled, she looked up. He pointed to the animals.
“On the table?” he signed. “Where we eat?”
“I’ve thrown them down a hundred times,” Lacey said.
“I wish you could hear them. One growling, one hissing. I can’t tell which is which.” Lacey looked again. Sure enough, both animals were slightly baring their teeth.
“How long are you cat sitting?” Alan asked.
She shrugged.
“A few more days.”
“Why are you cutting letters out of a magazine?”
“Work project. I thought you had a meeting.”
“I do.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. The kitchen lights flashed; someone was at the front door. Lacey also had flashing lights for the phone and the fire alarm. Her alarm clock, which was a device she put under her pillow, vibrated. Rookie flew off the table, startling even Blackie, who jumped about a foot in the air. Lacey tried to pat it down, but most of Blackie’s fur remained standing on end. Alan headed for the door; Lacey calmly straightened her magazine.
“Mommy’s here,” she signed to Blackie. Blackie’s large green eyes blinked at her. Lacey patted the cat and then made her way to the door. Margaret stood in the entryway, flushed and in tears. When she spotted Lacey, she began out-and-out wailing. Alan caught Lacey’s eye and signed, “Cat sitting? Cat sitting?”
“Hello, Margaret,” Lacey said. Blackie jumped off the table and landed with a thud. Margaret rushed past Lacey and picked up the massive fur ball. She planted kisses all over his furry face. “Lock the door,” Lacey told Alan.
“What is going on?” Alan said.
“Meet Margaret,” Lacey said. “My house mother. Is she just like you pictured her?” Lacey and Alan glanced at Margaret, who had bent over to set Blackie down. Her large ass was covered in flour and animal fur. Alan looked away.
“She said you stole the cat,” he said. “Did you?”
“Don’t you have a meeting?”
“Tell me you didn’t steal her cat.”
“Where’s his carrying case?” Margaret said. She was shouting, as if Lacey were merely hard of hearing and not profoundly deaf.
“Right here,” Alan said, opening the closet where Lacey had stashed it.
“Thank you,” Margaret said. Blackie willingly jumped into the case. Rookie ran over to as if to zip it up himself. Margaret picked up her prize and headed for the door. Lacey stood in front of it. The two stared at each other.
“Your man,” Margaret said, glancing back at Alan. “Does he know?”
“Know what?” Alan asked. Lacey didn’t answer.
“You haven’t really changed, have you?” Margaret said.
“Excuse me,” Alan said, joining them at the door. “What is going on here?” Margaret removed an envelope from her jacket and thrust it at Lacey.
“You weren’t supposed to get this information until I was dead,” Margaret said. Lacey took the letter.
“You’re kidding,” Lacey said, using every ounce of self-restraint not to add and when will that be?
“I tried to protect you,” Margaret said. “Like I would my own daughter.”
You were never my mother, Lacey thought. It was a sign of maturity that she didn’t say it.
“Be careful what you wish for, dear,” Margaret said. Alan interpreted, although Lacey had been reading Margaret’s lips all along. This time she didn’t smell booze on Margaret’s breath, and strangely she missed it. “It’s all I know,” Margaret continued. “So please don’t contact me again—unless it’s really to see me.” She reached for the doorknob, and Lacey let her go.
Alan stood staring at Lacey. Lacey stared at the envelope.
“What?” Lacey asked. Alan threw up his hands in frustration. Then he looked over at the dining room table.
“Were you writing a ransom note?” he asked. Lacey couldn’t help but smile.
“This isn’t funny,” Alan said. “You’re shutting me out. What is going on?”
“Unresolved childhood issues,” Lacey said, staring at the envelope. Did Margaret trick her, or did this envelope hold the key to who she was?
“More secrets?” Alan said. “Did she know something about your past or not?” Lacey held up the envelope. “Are you going to open it?”
“Of course.”
“Just not in front of me.”
“I have to go,” Lacey said. “So do you.” She moved past him.
> “Is this because of that book?” Alan asked. Lacey felt as if she were suspended from the ceiling.
“What do you mean?”
“Some kind of ill-advised self-help bullshit?” Lacey didn’t reply. She tried to move past him. “Don’t shut me out.” He moved in front of her and blocked her.
“You have to give me some time,” Lacey said. “Some space.”
“I’m late,” Alan said. He brushed past her and grabbed his keys from a hook by the door.
“I’ll be at the studio,” Lacey said. Alan didn’t turn around. For the first time in six years, he left without kissing her good-bye.
The minute Lacey pulled up to the warehouse, a feeling of calm settled over her. She couldn’t say the same thing for Rookie, who was vibrating as if he’d lapped up twenty bowls of Red Bull. For a moment Lacey was jealous of her dog. Had she ever been that excited over anything? Rookie jumped on her and licked her face. Must be nice, she thought as she planted a kiss on his nose. Then again, a dog’s life probably wasn’t the one for her. She’d never been one for sitting, shaking, or kissing butt.
She hated upsetting Alan, she hated that he left without kissing her good-bye, she hated that she was keeping secrets. But she just wasn’t ready to talk about this. She had to read Margaret’s letter alone. Only when she knew exactly what she was dealing with could she open up to Alan. It doesn’t matter what the letter says, she told herself as she and Rookie made their way to the studio. I have a good life. A job I like. A man I love. And of course a hyperactive puggle. The letter can’t change that. It can’t change anything.
Once inside, Rookie took off, zooming across the floor until he was nothing but a gyrating wheel of fur in the distance. Lacey knew he would run himself into oblivion and eventually tucker out on the La-Z-Boy chair. Lacey headed straight for the leather couch. She sat down and removed the letter from her purse. Her heart was pounding. She placed her hand over it. I should have bought a bottle of Johnny Walker, Margaret. If I don’t feel like toasting you after reading this, I could at least get smashed. She took a deep breath and opened the letter.
My Dearest Lacey,
It was so good to see you after all these years. And yes, as you already know, you have a twin. She’s identical to you except that she is not hearing impaired.
Deaf. All this time and Margaret still didn’t get that Lacey wanted to be called Deaf—
She was kept in the car when you were dropped off, but I could see her in the backseat. Both of you were carrying on something awful. You were three years old but you were fighting like a tiger, biting and clawing everyone in sight.
Three years old? So much for the baby in the basket. So that was the truth behind her “lost” baby pictures. Margaret said they’d been ruined in a flood.
I know you were led to believe that your biological parents had passed away. I’m so sorry, Lacey. I don’t know where they are now, or if they’re still alive, but they were the ones who dropped you off.
Her biological parents? Her biological parents? Lacey put the letter down. “Rookie,” she screamed, not bothering to clap. “Rookie!” He came racing over so fast he tripped on her feet and landed belly up on the floor in front of her. She picked him up and held on to him, burying her face in his fur. He smelled like corn chips. He licked her face. My biological parents kept my twin sister and dropped me off at Hillcrest? My biological parents?
She’d wondered about them over the years, of course; every orphan played the Who Are My Parents game.
They were Russian spies. It tore out their hearts to give her away, but the CIA was closing in on them, they had to go home, and they didn’t want to subject their delicate, newborn infant to harsh Russian winters and lukewarm Stroganoff. Although they could have hidden all their secret gadgets in her diaper bag—
They were young and in love and died tragically right after she was born. Her handsome father wheeled her mother out of the hospital and opened the back door of their Volvo. He gingerly took Lacey out of her mother’s hands and called to a nurse walking past, just beginning her shift. “Here,” he said handing Lacey over. “Hold this for just a sec.” Then he lifted her mother out of the wheelchair—she was perfectly capable of walking, but he was a romantic and was overcompensating for missing the birth because of twenty crucial seconds left in the Giants game. He was about to place her in the car when a rogue ambulance jumped the curb, killing both of them instantly—
Her mother was a princess who fell in love with a pauper—
Her father was a respected Harvard professor who wanted nothing more to do with her mother when he found out she was with child—
A pilot and a stewardess—
A priest and a nun—
Fat and retarded—
Midgets who couldn’t handle tall children—
Clowns on the run—
They were desperate—
They were addicts—strewn out on city steps with needles hanging out of their arms—incapable of raising a child, sacrificing their life with her so that she could have a better one—
Lacey had imagined every possibility under the sun. Except this one.
Her biological parents were “normal” and alive. They dropped her off at the group home. Where did they drop Monica off?
She should stop reading the letter, that’s what she should do. Forget all about it. It never happened. They didn’t exist. It didn’t work. The letter pulled her back.
And as far as I know, Monica, your twin, was raised by them.
Lacey would have thought she was immune to shock. Wasn’t there a limit to the amount a person could take, a point at which your system simply shut off and couldn’t feel anymore? But this one pitted and cored her. And not just because Margaret anticipated her question. They kept Monica? Raised her? They kept Monica and dumped Lacey off to be raised by Margaret Harris? There were no words, only a sudden free fall into a chasm of grief. Why should she even care? Why should she even give a fuck? Thank God they weren’t here to see tears dripping down her face. Screw them. Screw Monica too.
Monica. Lacey finger-spelled her name. M-O-N-I-C-A. She said it out loud. “Monica.” Did it feel familiar? No, she was a stranger. Rookie cocked his head and licked her again, but this time even a dog’s selfless tongue couldn’t stop the sharp pain still searing across her heart. Was she that bad? That damaged? That unloved? Was there some part of her that remembered? She wanted to throw something, if nothing else, herself, to the ground, pound her feet and fists like a child throwing a tantrum.
Keeping the letter clutched in her hand, Lacey began to pace. She wondered if there was any wine left in the kitchen. The small counter space next to the refrigerator revealed only half a bottle of red that had been there forever. Mike kept a special bottle of scotch in the cupboard. Single malt something or other. He was saving it, it was rare and expensive, that was all she knew. Whenever he was having a bad day, he would come to the cupboard and just hold the bottle to his chest. She really shouldn’t be doing this. She was just going to hold the bottle, that’s all. She didn’t even know if she’d know the difference between cheap and expensive scotch, just like she didn’t know if she preferred the music of Meat Loaf or Mozart.
Besides, she was only a two-glasses-of-anything-alcoholic girl, always had been.
The bottle was still there, unopened in the back of the cupboard. She brought it to the couch and continued with the letter.
At the time, I thought it was best you didn’t know
any of this, my darling Lacey. I can’t imagine
parents giving up one of their children, separating
her from her twin no less. And I couldn’t imagine
burdening you with this kind of pain. I’m sorry
you’re hearing this now, and I hope you understand
I only did what I thought was best. Legally, I wasn’t
allowed to tell you the circumstances surrounding
your situation, and I’m breaking the law even now,
but you’ve seen the book, they can’t blame me for that.
Just please try and keep my name out of this. Your
biological father is a man of considerable influence. I
don’t want, nor deserve, to face his wrath.
My father. My biological father. The head sperm donor. Face his wrath? Leave it to Margaret to be dramatic.
You and your sister are still young; maybe you’ll be the best of friends. You can look her up. Like you, your sister has a Web page. See? Something in common already. And in the bottom of the envelope, I’ve included the little toy you were clutching when you arrived. It appears to be broken. I believe your sister had the other half.
Toy? What did she do with the envelope? She dove her hand into her purse and yanked it out. A handful of items burst out with it, briefly arching into the air before hitting the floor, scattering in different directions. A tampon, lipstick, blush, her keys. She left them where they lay. She picked up the envelope and, on second thought, stomped on the lipstick. Desert Red oozed out like congealed blood. Lacey felt a strange sense of satisfaction, looking at the mangled tube. So she stomped on the blush. The plastic case cracked and a Kiss of Summer shot straight out, then caked the floor with shimmering, beauty-promising dust. Lacey was sweating. Her heart was pounding. She felt clammy. All the classic symptoms of a panic attack. She should be doing something, texting someone. She should text Alan. She should not open this rare bottle of scotch that does not belong to her.
You didn’t speak for six months after you arrived. Apparently, you and your sister had a language all your own, and it made you furious when the teachers of the hearing impaired wanted you to learn American Sign Language.
If it’s any consolation, I’ve never seen a woman looking so destroyed as your mother did on that day.