by Mary Carter
“What did she say?”
“She said you spent the whole day without an interpreter.”
“We wrote back and forth, we used gestures, we took off our clothes,” Monica said. Alan, who was about to leave the room, stopped.
“You did what?” he said. Monica giggled.
“Just our bras and panties,” she said, winking at Lacey.
“We should go,” Lacey said. “Alan has an early day tomorrow.”
“I’ll pay for the cab,” Alan said, taking out his cell phone. Monica picked up her suitcase.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said. “Give you some privacy.” The minute she left, Alan wrapped Lacey into a hug.
“I’m glad you gave her a chance,” he said. “I think this is a good thing.”
“We’ll see,” Lacey said. “I just don’t want to lose you.” He took her in his arms and held her. Then he let her go, kissed her, and signed: “Never.” She reached for his zipper.
“What are you doing?” Alan said. “She’s waiting.”
“Let her,” Lacey said.
Monica went through Lacey’s house like a prospective buyer, touching everything in sight, making constant comparisons. She had this or that book, she liked this or that magazine, her clock was almost exactly the same except it told time in Swahili. Lacey didn’t know what she was saying half the time and she didn’t care the other half. She was too busy figuring out how to get rid of her. Her options, thus far, were:
a. Drop in on Monica’s boyfriend, make him take her back.
b. Drop in on Monica’s parents, tell them their daughter was stalking her.
c. Use reverse psychology: Crawl into Monica’s skin like she was trying to crawl into hers.
d. Take her to a Deaf event.
Monica didn’t know sign language. One on one, she was handling herself pretty well, but if she was surrounded by Deafies, she might just crack. For many hearing people, it was a bewildering and isolating experience. That was it. If Monica wanted a taste of her world, Lacey would give her a whole meal. With any luck, Monica would choke on it, or at least eat and run.
“I want to introduce you to some of my friends,” Lacey said. She picked up her BlackBerry and texted Robert.
“Really?” Monica said. “You’re not mad I’m here?”
“You should have called first,” Lacey said.
“I couldn’t take the chance that you would say no,” Monica said. “I had to see you again. I had to.”
“You don’t mind hanging out with a few Deafies, do you?” Lacey asked. Monica smiled at Lacey.
“I want to meet your friends,” she said. It was crude and imperfect. Nevertheless, Lacey was completely horrified. Monica had said it in sign language.
Monica had the best night ever. There were so many Deaf people packed into the little downtown bar, and the room had a palpable excitement, an energy you could feel all around the room. Deaf people were funny, and talkative, and smart, and nice. They were nothing like her sister. Much, much nicer. And American Sign Language was so beautiful. And she noticed she liked some people’s signing better than others; she could see Deaf people had individual signing styles, like hearing people had accents and intonations. She loved her sister’s signing the best, she was pretty sure, and she wasn’t just saying that because they were sisters. People’s expressions varied too, in intensity and style. It was a whole new, cool world.
She was hugged a lot too, genuine hugs from people she didn’t even know. And they were so patient with her, for signing so slow, for asking for so much repetition. She couldn’t understand everything, they were so fast. Signs started to blur together, and she nodded her head as others were talking to her, but a few times she was nodding to nothing, just praying they wouldn’t ask her a question and catch on that she was clueless. How could she suddenly forget everything she learned in class? But she had, it was gone, she was simply watching movement in the air. She couldn’t wait until her sign language improved and she would know what these vivacious people were talking about. They seemed so happy to be together, and why wouldn’t they? Most of their time was spent where hearing people were the majority; here they could just be themselves. She noticed saying good-bye was a process that often took hours, folks standing by the door, hugs and kisses over with an hour ago, still chatting away. She was exhilarated but drained, and suddenly felt tired, as if she needed to sleep. Did Lacey notice? Is that why she took her home so soon?
“That was so much fun,” Monica said. They trudged up the steps and plopped on the porch chairs. Monica noticed they both had only two drinks apiece. Again, Monica thought about the evening. She learned a lot. And looking back on it, it was definitely not a “silent” experience. It was loud. And Deaf people were so cool. She learned it was okay to ask a Deaf person how they became Deaf. They would just tell you straight out.
“It’s genetic.”
“My mom had the measles.”
“I had a fever when I was two.” The origins and stories varied; the willingness to talk about it applied to everyone Monica met that evening. And it was starting to make sense to Monica. People only hid things they were ashamed of. Deafness was not something the folks she met tonight were ashamed of. So why not tell anyone who asked how they became Deaf? After the tight-lipped culture she grew up in, it was refreshing to be around people who shot from the hip. Robert and his actor friends were there, and she met so many new people. She met a Deaf doctor, a Deaf lawyer, students, artists, teachers. And even though she didn’t understand much of the sign language, she was able to glean a lot from facial expressions and body language. They were completely shocked to learn that Lacey had a twin—that required no interpretation whatsoever. Especially from the actors who kept doing double takes at the pair of them just to make everyone laugh.
Monica knew the evening had been some kind of test. And from the sour look on Lacey’s face, she figured she’d passed. Monica leaned her head back on the chair and listened to the sounds her sister couldn’t hear. Crickets. An occasional car passing, a dog barking. She picked up the pad of paper she’d carried to the bar.
How did you become deaf?
Don’t know. Ask your parents.
There it was again, the resentment. Monica dropped it. After a moment, Lacey picked up the pad and pencil again.
The doctor says it’s a congenital loss in my left ear (maybe from birth) but sensorineural loss in my right ear—due to accident or infection or an illness.
We have to confront them (parents), please!
It’s my fight.
Not fair. I lost you too.
Remember the rules.
I haven’t spoken to them since we met.
Lacey waved at Monica until she was sure she had her full attention. Then she picked up the pen again.
You have to keep talking to them. Act normal. You have to give me time.
Time for what?
I don’t know yet.
I thought you wanted me to DUMP THEM.
Eventually. Not now.
Okay.
Promise?
Cross my heart and hope to die.
Chapter 25
Lacey grudgingly had to admit that Monica was fun to have around. And she provided Lacey the perfect excuse to take time off of work. She needed a little break. Who wouldn’t approve of Lacey taking time off to get to know her long-lost twin?
They took the dogs for walks in all her favorite neighborhoods, grocery shopped at open markets, and scribbled notes on the porch in their pajamas, filling in the cracks of their lives.
How old were you when you got your period? Both age twelve, around Halloween for Lacey, Christmas for Monica. Monica’s aunt Grace took her out to dinner to celebrate. Margaret gestured tampon insertion instructions in a crowded bus depot bathroom.
Margaret: “Stick it up the hole!”
Lacey: “Which one?”
Biggest fear?
Bats, for Lacey.
The woods, for Monica.
Hate them. All of them.
Why?
Group home. We’d be paraded around the community, given gifts by people we’d never met, baked dry cookies by old ladies, dragged to church, reminded we didn’t have real families.
Monica was crying again. So Lacey told her about her one bright spot, Miss Lee. She could’ve been a Mrs. Lee; Lacey didn’t know for sure, or really care. She knew enough. Miss Lee was tall, and funny, and beautiful. She always made an effort to encourage Lacey, made her feel special. Every holiday Lacey got some little gift from her. That was something, it wasn’t all bad.
Halloween, Lacey wrote. I also like Halloween.
Our birthday! It was true, the twins were born under a full moon, in a night filled with witches and broomsticks, and buckets of candy. What their life might have been. Two little girls in disguise. Trick or treat. Monica felt bad for bringing up birthdays. After all, she had celebrated every single one with her parents.
Don’t forget she collects lace, Monica wrote. She keeps it all over the house. Lace, lace, lace.
Who?
Mother.
Lacey was asleep on the sofa. Lying on her side, arms hugging a green silk pillow, mouth slightly open, a stray dark hair snaked across her upper lip. Rookie was curled up in the space between her stomach and the sofa’s edge. Snookie was nestled at her feet. They both like Lacey better, Monica thought as she watched her sister sleep. It was now or never. Even though she knew Lacey couldn’t hear her, she still crept up the stairs. It wouldn’t take long; there were only two rooms and a bathroom on the second floor. She was staying in the guest-room-slash-office to the left; the room on the right was Alan and Lacey’s. The closet in her room offered nothing but Alan’s suits and a few high heels that Monica could only hope belonged to Lacey, as she’d already tried those on. She slipped into the bathroom. She’d start with the medicine cabinet first; that was hardly a crime.
Toothpaste, dental floss, Q-tips, tampons, shaving cream, deodorant, men’s cologne, perfume. No prescription pills, not even a bottle of pain reliever. Monica’s pills were in her suitcase. She hadn’t carried them in her pocket lately. When was the last time she’d even thought about them? A pair of jeans were slung over the towel rack. She loved how Lacey dressed: casual, artistic, confident. Before she could talk herself out of it, Monica slipped off her tan dress pants and slipped on the jeans. A perfect fit. She took her socks off and looked at her feet. Just plain old pink polish. How mundane, how utterly ubiquitous. She opened the cabinet underneath the sink.
There it was, a basket filled with polishes, every shade under the rainbow. Monica closed her eyes and tried to remember which colors her sister had on her feet. She picked the colors out of the basket, sat on the toilet, and propped her foot up on the edge of the tub. Red, she was sure, for the big toe. Red, green, yellow, blue, purple. Right foot, then left. She put the polishes back in the basket and was about to close the cabinet when she noticed the makeup bag next to it. She slipped it out and stood in front of the mirror. The glasses had to go. She’d taken them off when she visited Lacey and Alan at his job site, but soon the need to see won out over vanity. Now, though, she hated them again. Did Lacey wear contacts? Or did she get deafness while Monica got the poorer vision?
Monica took her glasses off, shook out her hair. Lacey’s hair was longer; there was nothing Monica could do but let it grow. Lacey wore a dusky eye shadow, a trace of brown eyeliner, black mascara, and at times a shiny copper color on her lips. Monica did the same. Then she added a freckle near her chin with brown eyeliner. Except for the hair, and the way-too-conservative blouse, she dared anyone to tell them apart now.
She tossed her dress pants and socks over the towel rack and padded into the bedroom, careful not to mess up her toes. She headed straight for the closet. It was a shame she didn’t have time to try everything on. She took off her blouse, threw it on the bed. She picked a billowy cream-colored blouse with colorful flowers. It was low-cut, with strings that could be tied in a bow. She left them hanging down, as she imagined Lacey would. She found a pair of brown flip-flops, perfect for showing off her new toes. She found a group of perfumes gathered on the dresser, sniffed each one until she found one she liked the best, a soft vanilla fragrance, and sprayed. She opened the dresser drawer. She avoided Lacey’s rings but put on a pair of gold hoop earrings and a small gold bracelet. The transformation was complete.
It’s amazing how easy it was, how suddenly she wasn’t herself anymore. She was sexier, way more confident. What would Joe think? Would he throw her down on the bed, take her right here, right now? But it wasn’t Joe she imagined ripping off her clothes, it was Mike. Michael Dawson, sculptor. She could feel his lips on hers, his arms holding her, crushing her, as if he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t take her clothes off fast enough; then, he’s on top of her, inside her, all about her. Could she do it? Could she go to the studio and surprise Mike over the weekend? No. Because no matter how she looked on the outside, inside she was still the same old boring, conservative Monica.
She crept back downstairs, stood next to the couch, and listened to her sister breathe. She was very loud. Just like she chewed loudly, and tapped pencils to a beat she couldn’t hear, and sometimes shuffled her feet noisily along the sidewalk because she couldn’t hear herself walk. Would Monica have told her these things about the hearing world if they’d grown up together? Would Lacey have wanted her to, or would she have hated her for it? Just like she might hate her for going against her plan to dump her parents. Because nothing was going to get resolved until they all met face-to-face. Monica would do it; somehow she would get them all in a room together. They were a family. Whether they liked it or not.
“Okay,” Lacey said. “Tell me about our parents until I say stop.” Monica glanced at Kelly Thayler, who was perched across from Lacey, ready to interpret and offer comfort as if she were the sister here. Why did she even have to be here? They were doing fine on their own. And it was just rude of Kelly to always sign back and forth with Lacey without telling her what she was saying. Weren’t there already enough barriers between them without adding her to the mix? Just because they spent a couple of years together as children, years that should have belonged to Monica—that didn’t give her the right to storm in and take over. Although she did like hearing stories from when Lacey was a girl, stories that should have never happened, stories that should have been both their memories.
Lacey was a hellion at school, she learned. Always playing practical jokes, always breaking the rules. Once, at Lacey’s insistence, she and Kelly tied their bedsheets together and slid out the window.
“We were only on the second floor,” Kelly laughed.
“Where did you go?” Monica asked. Wishing it had been her and Lacey sliding down the sheets together.
“We collected lightning bugs,” Lacey said. Monica loved watching her sister sign. She could see the lightning bugs brought to life before her very eyes, flying and blinking, then being trapped in ajar. Lacey even bugged her eyes out as if she were the one who’d been captured.
“That’s right!” Kelly said. “You snuck into the kitchen and poured an entire jar of spaghetti sauce down the drain just to get the jar to put them in.”
“Ragu,” Lacey said. “Margaret was furious. She didn’t let me eat spaghetti sauce for an entire year.”
“Bitch,” Monica said. “Total bitch.” How could her parents have done this to her?
“It was no big deal,” Lacey said. “It was worth it.”
“It’s so easy to picture,” Monica said. “And of course I know exactly what you looked like as a little girl. Exactly like me.”
“You two don’t look exactly alike,” Kelly said. “I can easily tell you apart.”
“Care to put that to a test?” Monica said. Monica had been practicing “changing into Lacey” every day she could get away with it. She was getting good at it. She doubted Little Miss Interpre
ter could tell them apart.
“We’re not trying to look alike,” Lacey said. “I don’t want to look like anybody but me.” It’s too late, Monica wanted to shout. You do look like me, I look like you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Lacey was, of course, a different person. Monica was shocked her sister rode a motorcycle, jumped out of airplanes, and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of her. Monica wished she were more like her.
“Back to the subject,” Lacey said. “Tell me about our parents until I tell you to stop.”
Monica started with the Colonel. He was very tall, dark hair, blue eyes. They definitely had more of his genes than their mother’s. He grew up in Savannah, Georgia, with his sister, Grace. They came from money. He learned to fly airplanes when he was just sixteen—
“That’s where you get your sense of adventure from,” Monica said, interrupting herself. “From our father.”
“No,” Lacey said. “I got it from being abandoned. Alone. Having to fight my way through the world.” Lacey stared Monica down, daring her to say otherwise. Monica felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach, but she didn’t argue the point.
“When Dad and Grace were little, their mother, our grandmother—”
“Stop,” Lacey said. “Grandparents. I never thought about grandparents. Aunts, uncles, cousins. I never thought about any of that.” She leapt off the couch and began pacing. This time it was Kelly’s turn to give Monica a dirty look. It was true. A whole world had been taken from Lacey. Gifts, and kisses, and hugs. Birthdays and Christmas and—
It wasn’t just her parents who’d kept this secret, it was an entire family structure. Everyone lied. Why? How could they have possibly convinced them to keep quiet? Was that why they hardly ever visited their relatives? Had her father set some kind of condition, complete with punishment if anyone ever opened their mouths? He probably had.