by Mary Carter
“I was just passing through, Mother. I had to use the bathroom.”
“Passing through? You’re behaving strangely, Monica. You haven’t seen us or talked to us in weeks—now you’re passing through to use the bathroom, borrow my lace coasters, and defile the Jell-O?”
“Borrow your—” Monica stopped herself, and laughed. What would her mother do if she just told her? It wasn’t me. It was Lacey. Lacey stole your lace. Remember her? She’s wonderful. She’s beautiful. And she’s totally pissed. So am I, Mother, so am I.
So much for Lacey’s visit to Alan. Why didn’t she tell her where she was going? Why was she still shutting her out?
“I have to go, Mom.”
“Monica, you can’t have gotten far. Why don’t you just turn around and come home?”
“I have plans with Joe—I’m sorry. I’ll stay longer next time. I promise.” Monica shouted “I love you” and hung up.
Alan was sitting on the front porch when Monica returned with the dogs. He was dressed in running clothes and stretching. Monica sat down on one of the lounge chairs.
“She went to my parents’—our parents’—cabin,” Monica said. Alan stopped stretching and turned to face her.
“Pardon?”
“Lacey. She went to my parents’ cabin.”
“How do you know?”
“My mother just called. Our friend John, who does odd jobs around the place, ran into her. She also folded the laundry and—apparently—did something vulgar to the Jell-O.”
“Where is this cabin?”
“Moosehead Lake. Maine.”
“Jesus,” Alan said. He leaned against the porch rail. “How did she know where it was?”
“I showed her on Google Earth.”
“How did she get in?”
“Dumb luck. Our friend John was over planting shrubs. He always leaves the back porch unlocked.”
“She probably would have found a way in anyway,” Alan said.
“She’s braver than I am,” Monica said. “Same DNA, but I’m a coward.”
“She’s her own woman, all right,” Alan said. Monica got up and slowly approached Alan.
“I don’t want you to betray any confidences,” she said.
“But?”
“But what does Lacey think about me? What did she say to you when she found out about me?”
“She was in shock, of course.” Alan looked pained himself, and his gaze remained anywhere but on Monica. There was definitely more to that story, but she wasn’t going to push it.
“Still. You must have quite the life,” Alan said. “Best-selling author. Workshop circuit.”
Monica shrugged. It’s not my life, she wanted to say.
“I lost my assistant,” Monica said. “I haven’t done a workshop since. And Joe, my ex-fiancé, is the mastermind behind the book.” Monica moved away from Alan and fixed her gaze on the small backyard. “I’ve been searching for something my entire life,” she said. “I always thought I was crazy. But I’m not. It’s her. I’ve been searching for her.”
“From what I’ve heard, you two were very close as toddlers.”
“I wish I could remember. How can I not remember?”
“Do you have the horse?” Alan asked. Monica looked at him.
“What horse?”
“Lacey has half a toy horse. Her house mother said she came to the orphanage with it. We assumed you had the other half. The head and the front legs.” Monica shook her head.
“Where is it?” she said. “Can I see it?”
“Would you believe we spent an entire day digging through garbage looking for that horse?”
“You did what?”
“It’s a long, stinky story,” Alan said. Monica laughed. “Did you have horses growing up?” he asked.
“Lacey asked me the same question. No, we didn’t have horses growing up. My mother wouldn’t even let me get a dog; she was afraid my dad would accidentally shoot it. What? Does she think I was some spoiled little rich girl? That I had the perfect life? My father is a wannabe military colonel who doesn’t know how to bond with you unless you’re holding a rifle, and my mother is so nervous she’s afraid of her own shadow. I love them, but it wasn’t all angels on parade, if you know what I mean. If Lacey got to know my parents, she might be glad she grew up in an orphanage.” Monica slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“It’s okay,” Alan said. “Nobody’s family is perfect. Nobody’s life is perfect.”
“Was it that terrible? The group home?”
“Well, I don’t think they beat them into submission or anything, but how great can growing up an orphan be? She definitely carries scars. And she doesn’t attach to people easily. Besides some art teacher that visited once in a while, I don’t think she formed any real bonds as a kid. Now she has me and her Deaf friends.”
“What about your parents? Is she close to them?”
“My parents passed away a few years ago. They never got to meet her, but they would have been thrilled I was dating a Deaf girl. They would have treated her like a daughter.”
“Your parents were deaf?”
“I see she has been talking to you. Yes, my parents were Deaf.”
“My parents aren’t evil people, you know. They wouldn’t have given Lacey away because she was deaf. Send her to a special school—a private school—of course—”
“Maybe you’re adopted. Did you ever consider that?”
“I’m not. I’m not adopted.”
“How do you know? It makes sense. You and Lacey lost your real parents at a young age, then along come your parents—they don’t want to take on a deaf child—so they adopt you.”
“I look like them. We look like them.”
“People see what they want to see. Do you have baby pictures?”
“Of course. Not ones as an infant. Those were—”
“Lost in a flood?”
“A fire,” Monica said. “Oh my God.” She stumbled back to her chair. “There’s another explanation for that,” Monica said. “They’ve hidden those pictures because Lacey is in them.”
“True.”
“Do you think it would make things easier?” Monica asked. “If they aren’t really our parents?”
Alan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Then she wouldn’t feel so rejected. Unwanted.”
“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’ve been crying for the past two weeks.” Monica wiped her eyes and stood. “I want to see that horse.”
“I think I’d better let Lacey—”
“Please. It’s just a blue plastic horse, for God’s sake!” Alan nodded and headed into the house. He stopped when he reached the door.
“How did you know that?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘It’s just a blue plastic horse.’ I never told you that. How did you know?”
“Oh my God,” Monica said. “I don’t know. I didn’t even think about it. It just slipped out.” Alan smiled, but it was a sad smile nonetheless.
“Wait here,” he said. “She might have taken it with her. If not, I’ll get it.”
“I’m sorry,” Alan said, coming into the dining room, where Monica was having a cup of tea.
“You can’t find it?”
“No. But that’s not what I was talking about.” Alan sighed, held up his cell phone. “Lacey just texted me.”
“Is she on her way home?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great. Did she say—”
“She wants you to leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“She asked me to tell you—she just wants some time alone with me.” Monica smiled, drank her tea.
“I see,” she said. The cup shook in her hand. Alan took a seat across from her.
“You just have to give her some time.” Monica wished he’d go away. She didn’t want to cry in front of him. She wanted to thro
w the coffee cup across the room too, watch it break, an urge that surprised her.
“She didn’t text me,” Monica said.
“In her own way, I think she’s trying not to hurt your feelings,” Alan said. Monica stood, knocking into the table as she did. Jostling the tea.
“I’m going to tell my parents,” Monica said.
“Didn’t Lacey ask you not to do that?”
“She snuck over to their house. She broke in. She obviously wants to meet them.”
“Because nothing says ‘I love you’ like breaking and entering?”
“I never would have been attracted to you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t help comparing our lives. Our tastes, our mannerisms, our experiences. You aren’t my type.” Alan studied her for a moment with eyes that were wise and kind.
“It was good to see you again, Monica,” he said before leaving the room.
Monica hated herself; she was acting like a child. Alan was good to Lacey, just like Kelly Thayler was good to Lacey. The problem, Monica realized, was that she wanted Lacey all to herself. She also wanted to yell out an apology to Alan, but the words were stuck in her throat.
Chapter 27
“I don’t like what you’re suggesting,” Katherine said. She sat across from the psychiatrist, whom she still couldn’t call Dianne, despite the many encouragements to do so.
“Monica is extremely dependent on Lacey—”
“They’re twins—”
“We’ve been over this. It’s not a healthy bond. She has severe separation anxiety when they’re apart.”
“Which is why it would be cruel to separate them.”
“Cruel to whom, Mrs. Bowman? You’ve seen it yourself. Lacey wants independence from her sister. She’s desperate for autonomy. I’ve been working with them for several months and—”
“And I’ve been working with them for two and a half years—”
“Then you know I speak the truth. Your daughters must be free to form other bonds. With you. With their father.”
Katherine stood. “I’m afraid this has all been a waste of time,” she said. “They’re just babies.”
Dianne remained seated. “Violence and aggression in toddlers isn’t a topic people like to talk about. But it does happen, Mrs. Bowman.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Monica’s aggression has multiplied since starting therapy. You’ve said it yourself. She’s withdrawn from everyone except Lacey.”
“What am I supposed to do? Just ship her off somewhere? What in the world are you thinking?”
“Maybe there’s an aunt she can stay with a few days a week? I’m just suggesting fostering time apart, a little at a time. I’m not suggesting anything permanent. To make a comparison, this is like an operation to separate Siamese twins. Just because they’re close, connected, doesn’t mean it’s healthy. Doesn’t mean it’s best for both girls.”
“Thank you for your time. But they’re just babies. This is just a phase.” Katherine walked to the door.
Dianne finally stood up. “I strongly disagree, Mrs. Bowman. I’d like to talk to your husband.”
“How dare you.”
“Monica needs help.”
“She’s two years old.”
“Under stress your daughter acts out physically. She bites, she hits, she throws things. If something isn’t done about this now, I’m afraid one of them could get seriously hurt.”
“All siblings squabble.”
“I don’t think you grasp the seriousness of this situation. You came to me for help, remember?”
“Thank you for your time. But we won’t be coming back.”
“Mrs. Bowman, please. Just take some time and consider what I’m telling you. Talk to your husband.”
“Good-bye, Dianne.”
“My door is always open. And for the record, I hope I’m wrong. I hope to God I’m wrong.”
She is wrong, Katherine thought hours later as she watched the girls play in the sandbox. They were so happy. All they needed was each other and a bucket. They had their own language between them, and more than that, they could speak to each other with just a look. Lacey started to crawl out of the sandbox. She held her arms out for her mother. Katherine smiled and reached for Lacey. But the moment Katherine grasped Lacey, she felt a whack on the top of her head, and sand fell over her eyes like a sheet of ice. She tried to keep a grip on Lacey, but the sand blinded her. As gently as she could, she set Lacey down. Lacey immediately began to cry and scream for her mother. Katherine clamped her hands to her eyes and tried to claw out the sand. She needed to rinse them out with water before any real damage was done. But the third nanny this year had quit just last week. It’s just a phase, she told herself again as she stumbled across the lawn toward the garden hose. It’s just a phase.
Chapter 28
“Monica?” Joe said, stepping into the house. “What’s all this?” The dining room table was set with their best china. She even ironed the tablecloth, one she bought years ago but never took out of its packaging. Candles were lit, a Wynton Marsalis CD was playing softly in the background. Monica wore a black silk nightgown that barely kissed the top of her knees. Her hair was piled on top of her head, with the exception of a few soft tendrils hanging long and loose. She wanted to scream, “What the hell does it look like, you idiot,” but she was worried it might ruin her romantic mood.
She hadn’t seen Joe in weeks; Lacey had actually sparked the idea. It had been so sweet, watching her propose to Alan. So romantic. That’s when she realized she could do the same thing. It was time to stop fantasizing about a certain sculptor whom she didn’t even know and who hadn’t even called her, and start paying attention to the one who loved her. The simple gold band she bought at the mall was sitting in a little box in the middle of the table, next to the vase of roses. She had bought a new nightgown and made his favorite meal: wild salmon with a lemon caper sauce, rice, and broccoli steamed on the side. They would eat, hopefully get a little drunk, and she would ask him to marry her before clearing the table and throwing herself down on it. She wanted, more than anything, to seal the deal by having sex on the dining room table. If he said yes, she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
And this new approach to life wasn’t going to stop with Joe. She was going to go back to the workshop circuit, but this time things were going to be different. Enough with blueprints and visions and planning out every little step. She was going to urge people—no, inspire people—to be impulsive, take chances, grab life by the reins. Or horns. Or whatever they can grab. Because her new motivational mantra was simple: Someday, we’re all going to die.
So we all deserved what we wanted out of life. Love. Laughter. Connection. Sex on the dining room table. She’d been too timid to ask for any of it, too shy. No more. And instead of waiting around for Joe to make an extraordinary move like a kidnapped victim waiting to be rescued from the trunk, she was going to take matters into her own hands.
Monica walked over to Joe, conscious of the wiggle in her hips, her slow smile. She threw her arms around him, kissed his neck.
“Did you miss me?” she whispered.
“Of course,” Joe said in a normal tone of voice. He pulled back and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Why are you dressed for bed?”
“You don’t like?” Monica twirled around. “Well, I can rectify that.” She started pulling the nightgown over her head.
“What are you doing?” Joe sounded truly alarmed. He came to her side and pulled the nightgown back down. Monica brushed her hair out of her eyes and stared at him.
“Most men would be helping me take it off,” she said.
“I thought we were going to eat.”
“I can’t wait. I want sex. So drop your pants and let’s do it right here, right now.”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know. There’s not supposed to be an ‘or what.’ ” Joe pulled out a chair,
sat down, folded his arms.
“I thought we were going to have a nice dinner,” he said. Monica nodded and left the room. She took the stairs to their bedroom two at a time. Her suitcase was still on the bed. She rummaged around in it until she found the jeans and shirts she’d taken from Lacey’s closet. She took off her nightgown and put them on. She went back downstairs, took the salmon out of the oven. She stirred the rice, steamed the broccoli, and started plating. They ate in silence.
If she stayed with Joe, this would be her life. Nothing daring or spontaneous. A short while ago, she wouldn’t have seen anything wrong with it. A solid man, who’d basically earned her parents’ stamp of approval, a man who’d helped her launch a successful career. A short while ago, that would’ve been worth more to her than a boring sex life. Didn’t that eventually go downhill anyway? So what if they practiced the same missionary position, with few exceptions? So what if they never talked about sex, or flirted with each other, or ripped off articles of clothing in the heat of passion? So what if he always came and she rarely did?
“I know you’ve been through a shock,” Joe said, putting down his fork for a moment. “I can’t imagine what it’s like finding out you’re a twin.”
“Don’t forget finding out your parents have been lying to you your entire life,” Monica said. “Lied to us, I should say,” she added.
“Us?” Joe asked, the familiar line materializing on his forehead. “When have they lied to me?”
“Not you,” Monica said. “Lacey. Lacey and me. Me and Lacey. My sister. My twin. I can’t believe you found a way to make this about you.”
“That’s not fair, Mon. It’s just—I’m not used to this—suddenly everything is you and Lacey. What about the rest of your life? What about a little balance?”
“My mother told me Lacey was stillborn,” Monica said. “Do you call that balanced?”
“Look, you don’t know their reasons—”
“Excuse me?” Monica slammed down her fork and pushed her plate away. “Whose side are you on, Joe?”
“Let’s not get dramatic. Please?”
“I quit,” she said. She threw down her napkin.