by Mary Carter
There was no need to share every little thought that flitted through her brain with Joe. It felt good to fantasize. And she had this feeling inside her, this lifting-off-the-ground sensation in her solar plexus. Was this actually joy? Was joy interrupting her life, making her spontaneously smile? Practice what you preach, Monica. Tell the truth. You’re in love. From the moment she’d locked eyes with him across the little poolside table at another generic hotel, everything about her world ceased to be ordinary. She knew it. Just from looking in his eyes. The thought even went through her head when they shook hands: I want to climb on top of this man. That’s what she was thinking. Her! She wanted to straddle a perfect stranger poolside at a Marriott Courtyard. Shame on her. Ridiculous, childish, impossible. In love with a man she’d barely met. It felt delicious, harboring a secret. Why hadn’t she ever done it before? It was so wrong. It felt so good. But not good enough to stop her from shedding a few tears over her dead baby sister.
Chapter 12
Richard was dreaming about trigger valves and bullets one minute and Monica’s Pink Pumpmaster the next. Instead of bullets, it was shooting jelly beans. He was aiming it at a line of cans when suddenly Grace was sitting on the fence. He tried to stop shooting, but the trigger was stuck. For a moment he forgot the gun was loaded with jelly beans; he was convinced he was going to kill her. He was going to kill his little sister. She was laughing, even as he shot at her. She opened her mouth and started catching jelly beans as fast as she could. She was going to choke! Don’t take such big bites, he could hear his mother scream at her. Don’t take such big bites!
He was awoken by a sound. Something moaning. No, creaking. He sat up in bed. His heart was pounding, his palms and forehead dappled with sweat. The clock on the side of the bed glowed 3:30. Katherine was the culprit. She was awake and standing in front of their closet. The door was wide open; she was staring into it.
“Katherine,” Richard said. “What are you doing?” Katherine turned toward him. A dark shape dangled from her arm, barely visible in the room. It was a woman’s suit jacket.
“Look what I found in her pockets,” Katherine said.
“What?” Richard asked. How could he possibly see in the dark?
“It’s a bottle of sleeping pills,” Katherine said. Richard looked at the clock.
“They work better if you take them,” he said.
“They’re not mine,” Katherine said. “They’re Monica’s.” Richard sighed and flipped on the bedside light. He put his hand over his eyes until they adjusted to the glare. What had he been dreaming about? Katherine padded over, opened the bedside drawer, and handed him his glasses. She sat on the edge of the bed and thrust a bottle of pills into Richard’s hand. He examined the bottle.
“She has a prescription,” he said. Katherine grabbed the bottle and shook it near his ear.
“She hasn’t taken any of them,” she said.
“So?”
“If she needs a sleeping pill, she’d be taking one a night. She’s not taking any. Why?”
“Maybe she doesn’t really need them.”
“Why is she carrying a whole bottle of them around in her pocket?”
“Why are you going through her pockets in the first place?”
“Richard, not now!”
“First you’re upset she has them, now you’re upset she hasn’t taken them?”
“You’re not listening to me. This is a cry for help.” Katherine began to pace the floor. It was the reason Richard had had plush carpet installed. He preferred wood floors, but installing the carpet in their room had eased the annoyance.
“Just come back to bed,” he said. Instead, Katherine stood by the window and opened the drapes.
“Your sister outdid herself today.”
“You handled it,” Richard said. “And did you see the look on her face when she opened the ticket?”
“So what? She’s quiet for another month? Then what? Are you going to keep bribing her?”
“I’ll handle Grace. Please come back to bed.”
“I want to see her,” Katherine said quietly.
“You’ll see her in the morning,” Richard said.
“Lacey,” Katherine said. “I want to see Lacey.”
“Katherine.”
“Don’t you? Don’t you want to see her?”
Richard threw the covers off and sat with his feet dangling off the side of the bed. “This isn’t about what I want,” he said in a controlled voice. “This has never been about what we wanted. It was about what was best for the girls. Have you forgotten that?”
“It’s too late. That man. That artist. He’s from Philadelphia, Richard.”
“I heard.”
“Did you see his face? He knows her, Richard! He knows Lacey. He’s going to tell Monica.”
Richard slid off the bed and approached Katherine. “Give me those pills.”
She handed him the bottle.
“I’ll pay him a visit,” Richard said.
Katherine lunged forward and grabbed Richard’s arms. “I want to come with you.”
“This is not about seeing her. This is about damage control.”
“I have to go with you. You have to let me come.”
“Come to bed.”
“Please, Richard. Please.”
“Just come to bed.” They lay in the dark.
“What are you going to say to convince him?” Katherine whispered after a moment. “What are you going to say?”
“What can I say?” Richard said. “He’s a feel-good type. A do-gooder. Insulting me in my own home—”
“I didn’t hear him insult you—”
“ ‘I’m not a gun person.’ What do you think that was?”
“Oh. So what are you going to do?”
“The only thing you can with those liberal types.”
“What, Richard? Finish your sentence.”
“The truth. I’m going to tell him the truth.”
“The truth,” Katherine whispered. “As if we know what that is anymore. As if we ever did.”
Chapter 13
An eternity passed under the shadow of five days. Five days in which Lacey and Alan did not speak or sign. Five days of Lacey sleeping on the couch. Alan hadn’t asked her to do this; she’d simply swiped her pillow and blanket from the bedroom the night after they came back from the warehouse, plopped them on the couch, and that’s where she’d stayed. Alan continued to go to work, walk and feed Rookie, and go to the gym. Lacey spent the first day on the couch staring at a blank television screen. The second day she sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee. It was still full when Alan got home, grown cold and curdled in the cup.
Alan let her be on the first day, but the evening of the second, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen and simply watched her. Lacey, he had surmised, had three basic modes. Daredevil and Dreaming Artist were the two he’d grown accustomed to, but this third one was utterly heart-wrenching. Catatonic. He’d never seen someone sit so still for such long periods of time. It was so not Lacey. Not the woman he knew and loved. The woman who drove him crazy with worry whenever she got it in her head to do something—buy a motorcycle, go skydiving, climb Everest—the one thing she hadn’t (thank God) followed through with (yet).
The first day he’d blamed her behavior on guilt and a hangover; the second day it gave him pause. But soon anger settled back in like a flock of birds, perching on his mind, flashing images of Lacey with her legs spread open in front of Mike—
Then he’d turned away from her, let her sit like a slab of stone. He walked Rookie, fixed himself dinner, and shut himself in their room for the rest of the night.
Day three he found her sitting on their front porch in nothing but a nightshirt and panties. He’d been about to set off on a run when the sight of her stopped him. She was sitting on the floor of the porch, in between the deck chairs, knees up, head thrown back against the wall of the house, eyes staring vacantly into space. Had she been there all night?
And just when he thought she was ignoring him, she turned her head and looked directly at him. It was dark, so it was possible she was actually looking beyond him, but he didn’t think so. As they stared each other down, Alan knew she was eventually going to win this one. Finding out you were a twin, and your biological parents kept your twin and threw you away, trumped any pain Alan was feeling about her almost cheating on him.
He knew this, he was fully prepared to concede the fight and focus on helping her, but he’d been waiting for an apology first. Surely, some kind of apology was in order, wasn’t it? Some kind of acknowledgment?
He wanted them to get past this, he knew it now. He wasn’t so sure the first few days, too hurt, too raw, but now he just wanted it over and done with. He’d be happy never to speak of it again. Lacey would have to find a new work space, that was for sure, but other than that, he wouldn’t make any demands. She wasn’t used to drinking, and she never could deal with stress—the shock of finding out what she found out—
But could he trust her? What if she did it again? Chances were, the next time she came on to some random man—he would do something other than stand there and stare at her. How could they get over this if she wasn’t going to even discuss it?
And what about this twin sister? Who was this woman, Lacey’s twin? Where was she? Did she know she had a sister, or had she been lied to her entire life as well? Alan wanted to meet her. And her parents. He’d have a few choice things to say to them. Up until now, he and Lacey had shared everything. How could they not talk about something so huge?
Alan walked over to Lacey, knelt down, and took her hand. She held it for a second and then pulled her hand away and deliberately turned her head. The Deaf equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears. His mother used to do the same thing when she was angry or disappointed with him. Oh, how it used to drive him crazy. Look at me, Mother, he would yell. Look at me. Of course yelling never worked. And of course he exploited their deafness too. He used to play the radio at top volume, sneak in and out in the middle of the night, ignore the phone ringing, fail to mention that their cute new puppy howled all night long and their neighbors were complaining....
He stared at Lacey for a minute, and then walked away. He hesitated at the edge of the porch. She wasn’t budging. He pushed off and went on his run. When he returned, forty minutes later, she still refused to look at him. That was the end of day three. Day four, Alan woke up determined to get her to talk, but when he went downstairs she was gone. The sheet and blanket she’d usually spread on the couch were folded neatly on the cushions. Alan checked the garage and, sure enough, her motorcycle was gone. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like any of it. This place they were in, this hideous, dark place, was not something he was used to. Alan worked things out. Alan built things step-by-step. This was not fitting neatly into the schema of who they were. Day five, she was back, coming into the house as he was leaving with Rookie.
Alan wasted no time telling her how worried he was. Lacey apologized and allowed him to hug her. He held her longer than usual. She was stiff and unresponsive in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s all I wanted to hear. But right now we need to focus on you. On finding your sister.” Lacey looked at him and shook her head.
“I don’t have a sister,” she said.
Lacey put pen to paper and started writing.
Hearing aids, plastic black spider ring from True Value hardware, jar with three live grasshoppers and two dead ones, pink Barbie toothbrush, panda bear with two blue eyes, TV privileges for a month, baby teeth, panda with one blue eye, strands of hair, skin cells, fingernails, toenails, my hearing, brain cells, Very Berry lip gloss, coin from Portugal, Spanish dancer doll, AA batteries, butter knife, television remote, blue pens, red pens, black pens, letter L from typewriter, eyelashes, pink-heart socks, red-heart socks, white socks, black socks, knees off jeans, patches off jeans, hair barrettes, hair bands, diary key, purple curly straw, watch, necklace with a tiny but real diamond, tiny but real diamond earrings, pearl necklace, Claddagh ring, my mind, my heart, my virginity, cell phone, brand-new set of oil paints, keys, keys, keys, keys, keys, keys, conch shell from Atlantic City (made in China), cashmere scarf, money, money, money, money, money, money, sock monkey. Eyeglasses, drinking glasses, looking glasses. Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair. Sense of humor, manners, timing, love, brand-new packet of 100 Glow in the Dark Stars. Sea horse. Paintbrushes, canisters, pencils, erasers, charcoal, tape, tape, tape, tape, tape, scissors, scissors, scissors, scissors, tape, tape, tape, tape, jade bracelet, here, kitty, kitty, kitty, old best friend, new best friend, new boyfriend. Phone message, strapless bra, childhood photos, umbrella, umbrella, umbrella, umbrella, umbrella, umbrella, umbrella. Sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses. Gloves, gloves, gloves, gloves, gloves. Acrylic nail tips from four fingers. 101 Sex Secrets That Will Knock His Socks Off!, dead butterfly, here, kitty, kitty, kitty. My way. Twenty-four cupcakes left on top of the car, bubbles, lighter, white cardigan with pearl buttons, jump rope, breath mints, reservation, wallet, driver’s license, driver’s license, driver’s license, driver’s license. LEGOs, crayons, Monopoly shoe, playing cards, tarot cards, passport, lottery, raffles, references. Homework, dog, cigarettes, mascara, blush, eyeliner, Hula-hoop, dates, Wicked Queen coffee cup, baseball caps.
Lacey put her list down and started to walk away. Then, she turned, came back, and added three more items to: “Things I’ve Lost.”
Plastic horse
Alan’s trust
Sister
It was gone. That’s all she knew. It was on the coffee table, and now it was gone. It had been on the coffee table for the past five days, on the coffee table in the bowl. She bought the bowl at an artist festival last summer. It was made by some schmuck who took a pottery class. The red bowl with the yellow stripe running through it and a large crack that allowed her to buy it for three bucks. The horse was in the bowl. Bowl horse. Horse bowl. Bowl horse. Horse bowl.
Maria.
Maria was here yesterday. It was her. She knew it was her. Maria was their housekeeper, their maid, their cleaning lady. Maria was no lady. Alan loved her, had known her for fifteen years; she’d cleaned his very first apartment, blah, blah, blah. Maria annoyed Lacey. Maria shouted and flapped her hands at Lacey whenever she tried to talk to her. It was like talking to a Spanish pterodactyl. Her breast were humongous and she loved smashing them into Lacey’s comparably tiny chest whenever she ambushed her with a hug. She would touch, touch, touch. Tug at Lacey’s hair to tell her she needed it cut. Pat Lacey’s ass if she thought she was wearing something too tight.
But worst of all were her cleaning methods. She moved things. She moved Lacey’s things. Alan thought it was no big deal if the Mickey Mouse cookie jar was on the opposite counter with his head screwed on backward, or the remote control was under the TV instead of on top of it, or the pillows on the couch had been rearranged. Lacey knew Maria was doing it on purpose. But up until now, even if they weren’t in their rightful places, their things were always still there. The horse was gone.
She started with the living room. Lifted couch cushions, opened drawers, pulled books off shelves. Opened Alan’s guitar, the one he said he stopped playing because he felt bad she couldn’t hear it, when it was really because he was too lazy to practice. She turned the guitar upside down and shook it. Logic wasn’t guiding her, only anger and panic. It was gone. She wasn’t going to find it in the guitar, or in the couch, or behind the books, or in the refrigerator underneath the butter.
She looked anyway. She shoved things around, turned things upside down, shook things. Four hours later, the house looked like someone had broken in, and there was no sign of her horse. What if Alan came home and saw her standing in the middle of this mess? She wasn’t even looking anymore, she was just throwing things across the room and kicking the furniture. Would he have her shipped off to a psychiatric hospital? Or would he simply pack his thin
gs and leave? Let’s look for her, he told her this morning. Let me help you find her. No way was Alan going anywhere near her “sister.” Neither was she. She was going to go back to painting cocker spaniels and permed trophy wives. This never happened, there was no twin, no parents, no life before Hillcrest.
Horse where, horse where, horse where? She filleted their bedroom, bathroom, guest room. She stopped at the door to the attic. Maria had probably thrown the poor horse up there with the bats. She put her hand on the doorknob. She took it off. She kicked the door to the attic three times. She stomped down the steps, back to the living room, hating herself for being so out of control. Hated herself for just being, which was so unlike her, the novelty of being someone new almost cheered her up. Hated her parents. Her sister. And really hated the stupid, broken, plastic horse.
The garbage. Maybe it was in the garbage. She stood over the bin in the kitchen. She reached in, grabbed the bag, and dumped it into the kitchen sink. There wasn’t much to sort through. Maria must have changed the bag.
Lacey ran out the back door and trudged up the drive to the garbage pails. She lifted the lid. They were empty. They had been full this morning. She probably just missed the garbage truck. If she were hearing, would she still be able to hear it? She looked up the street. No truck in sight.
She marched back inside, headed straight for the computer, and clicked on her link to the Video Relay Service. She was going to call Maria and let her have it. No more Mr. Nice Guy.