The Stolen Twin

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  I rolled out of bed. My mouth tasted like something had crawled inside it and died during the night. At least I had remembered to turn on my humidifiers before tumbling into bed.

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t managed to get myself drunk enough to forget. Much to my dismay, I remembered every gory detail. Disgusting. If I had to suffer from alcoholic hallucinations, at the very least those hallucinations should have the decency to be forgotten by the next morning.

  Never let you go.

  I shook my head, changed into sweats, pulled my hair back in a ponytail and did my exercises. Then I turned on my computer and checked my email. A couple of jokes, a new petition, nothing urgent. I sighed, rubbed my face and turned off my computer. Time to face the world.

  Brandi was sitting at the white Formica kitchen table drinking coffee and flipping through a textbook. She had twisted her hair into a loose knot at her neck. A couple of strands fell across her pale and drawn face. “Sleeping Beauty arises.” She blew a lock away. “Or, did you have a prince in there to keep you company?”

  I opened up a dark brown cupboard and took out a blue glass. “No prince, charming or otherwise.”

  “So Mr. New Wonderful struck out, huh?”

  I busied myself at the sink, reluctant to tell Brandi the truth. Although David had walked me home, I didn’t kiss him goodnight. That creepy moment at the party had stuck with me, even though I knew it was all in my head. I just couldn’t see letting him touch me.

  “Not necessarily.” I turned to lean my back against the sink.

  Brandi cocked her head, her eyes sharp and penetrating. “He just isn’t Tommy, is he?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Brandi tapped her pen on the table. “Well, let’s think about this for a moment. Tommy’s gorgeous, smart, funny, obviously head over heels in love with you and, oh yeah, did I forget to mention star quarterback of our winning football team? Yeah, he’s no keeper, is he? I’d definitely choose David over him.”

  “Why are you so fixated on this breakup? Last year alone he must have gone through all of Kappa Kappa Gamma’s sorority sisters. I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten around to sleeping with you. What’s the big deal if I break up with him? He won’t be lonely for long.”

  Brandi slammed her hand on the table. “That’s exactly why. Because he’s never gotten serious with someone, and when he finally does – you – you throw him back. Why? It doesn’t make any sense. And don’t give me this bullshit about needing different things. Anyone with half a brain can see you’re just as crazy about him.”

  I took a long drink of water, trying to think of an answer she would accept. Of all people to live with, why did I choose someone obsessed with finding a husband? “I’m just not sure what I want,” I said. “I was feeling uncomfortable in the situation and needed some space. That’s the truth.”

  Brandi eyed me, clearly not believing me but not pursuing it either. Instead she went back to flipping the pages of her textbook.

  I decided to change the subject. “As official dancing queen of the night, I’m surprised you didn’t come home soaked with drool from those poor mesmerized boys.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I walked across the faded yellow linoleum floor and sat down at the table. “Didn’t go so hot with Chuck, huh?”

  She savagely ran her fingers through her hair, releasing the smell of perfume trapped in its thick folds. “I had him right where I wanted. It was perfect, even better than I expected. Then she throws a fit and he goes running off to comfort her.” She yanked at the ends of her hair. “What did she do to get that kind of hold over him?”

  “Probably some disgusting, perverted act.”

  She half-smiled. “Not Chuck. He’s not interested in disgusting, perverted acts. Believe me, I tried.”

  “Ah, so it’s the Catholic school girl he wants. Maybe she has a kick-ass costume.”

  “Yeah, and she’s probably a prude to match.” Brandi sighed. “Oh, David sent you roses. They’re in the living room.”

  “David?” I stood up. “How did you know David sent them to me? Did you open the card?”

  “Of course I did. Duh. How did you think I knew who you were talking to last night? I thought maybe the florist had the name wrong.”

  The flowers stood on the coffee table. How could I have missed seeing them this morning? A dozen yellow roses in a vase, just beginning to bloom. I picked up the card. “Dinner tonight?” Signed with his name and phone number. How sweet. No trace of creepiness here.

  “Oh, did I mention he wants to have dinner tonight?” Brandi’s voice floated from the kitchen.

  “No, but I figured it out.”

  “Are you going to say yes?”

  “Haven’t decided.”

  “Well, he is cute.”

  “Thanks for the high approval rating.” I went back into the kitchen.

  “In case you hadn’t figured it out, I’m trying to be a supportive roommate here. You could give me something better to work with.”

  “Oh, sorry. Forgot to memorize my lines this morning.” I plucked my glass from the table and went to refill it. Now that I was up and moving, I was beginning to feel more like a person and less like two-week old leftovers. “By the way, last night at the party, did you happen to see someone dressed as a fairy?”

  “A fairy? And he didn’t get beat up?”

  I sighed. “Good God. Why’s that the first thing people think of? I meant a woman dressed in a real fairy costume. Pink dress, wings, the whole bit.”

  Brandi frowned. “No. Not that I recall. Why?”

  I shrugged, moving back to the table to sit down. “Just wondering who she was. We talked a bit last night, but I don’t remember seeing her around before.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask her her name while you were talking?”

  I studied my water glass. Maybe I shouldn’t have started this conversation in the first place. Had I ever told Brandi my sister’s name? Had I ever told her I even had a sister? “Her first name is Cat, but I don’t know her last name.”

  I risked a look at Brandi from under my lashes. Brandi’s face registered no recognition. Thank God.

  “Sooo … what? You throw up on that pink dress and now you’re feeling guilty about it?”

  “Something like that.”

  Brandi twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “Right. Whatever. By the way, remember I have to go home this weekend.”

  “Funds running low?”

  Brandi looked indignant. “And Ellen is being very unsympathetic to my plight. She won’t even put me on the phone with Daddy.”

  Brandi always referred to her mother by her first name. Needless to say, nobody would ever nominate them for the mother/daughter relationship of the year. Brandi was fond of saying that she knew her mother loved her because she had named Brandi after her most affectionate and enduring relationship.

  “So, you’ll take care of Jezzy for me, right?”

  I hated it when she asked me that. What if something happened to me and I ended up in the hospital? What would I do about Jezzy? “Just as long as I’m around.” I kept my voice light.

  She rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Just as long as you aren’t hit by a bus or have an aneurysm or get smacked in the eye from a ruler thrown by some disgruntled professor.”

  “Hey, my one lit professor got so agitated once he spilled coffee all over himself.”

  “And everyone knows that spilling coffee is just the first step down that slippery slope of flying rulers.” Brandi sauntered across the kitchen to refill her coffee cup. Even hung over, she still moved with her trademark slinky, sensual grace.

  “We all have our little quirks. Mine is I don’t like making plans more than a day in advance because you never know what might ha
ppen. You can always ask Martha to take care of Jezzy.”

  “Martha? Hello. I’m not sure Martha’s figured out there’s a cat in this house much less take care of her.”

  As if on cue Jezzy, short for Jezebel, appeared at the door and meowed. A beautiful cat, striped with shades of gray with huge blue eyes, Jezzy’s moods swung from loving when she got her way to annoying when she didn’t. Like owner, like pet.

  “See, even she’s saying she doesn’t want Martha to take care of her.” Brandi stirred fat-free cream into her coffee while the cat curled up on my lap.

  “Oh, is that what she said?”

  “So, you going to take care of her or what?”

  Jezzy regarded me with her unblinking stare. “I told you, just as long as I’m around.”

  Brandi shook her head. “I must be the only person on this campus who has not one, but two roommates, yet still has to consider getting a cat sitter to go away for a friggin’ weekend.”

  The front door slammed shut, accompanied by Martha’s trademark muttering. Jezzy leaped off my lap and streaked out of the room. Brandi mouthed “I told you so.”

  The front door opened onto a small landing with stairs leading both up and down. Normally when Martha came in, we would hear her stomping down the steps that led to her bedroom. Instead today, we heard her heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs and across the living room, her feet making this odd clumping noise. One good thing about Martha – we never had to worry about her sneaking up on us.

  She appeared in the doorway, arms full of books. Martha spent her life studying. She wanted to be either a history or a philosophy professor. Brandi and I couldn’t figure out which one she muttered the day we met her. Come to think of it, half the time we couldn’t tell if Martha was muttering to us or to some inanimate object in the room.

  Today she seemed to be giving us her complete attention. Nodding, she hoisted the books on the kitchen counter.

  “Cold.” She rubbed her hands together. Her chapped red nose had started to run and she reached for a tissue.

  “Yes, it does tend to get a bit chilly in November,” Brandi said.

  “Can’t believe it’s November already. So behind in everything. I have three papers due and another midterm and a project and then finals. D’you mind if I have some coffee?”

  Brandi moved away from the coffee maker. “Be my guest.”

  Martha marched to the cupboard, feet clumping all the while. Unlike Brandi, her movements were jerky and unsure, as if she had just gone through a growth spurt and didn’t know the limits of her body. Her lank brown hair hung limply against her pale and unremarkable face. It wouldn’t take much to turn Martha from plain into pretty, but either she didn’t know she could be more attractive or she didn’t care.

  On second thought, maybe pretty was overstating it.

  “Nice roses,” Martha said, after swallowing half her cup. “Think I’m allergic though.”

  “To roses?” I asked.

  Martha sniffed. “Something’s got me all stuffed up.”

  “Maybe you’re allergic to the cold,” Brandi said.

  Martha shook her head. “No, something in the apartment’s been bugging me. Been like this a few days.”

  “I’ll put them in my room.” I stood up.

  “Won’t matter if they’re in your room if I’m allergic.”

  “I’ll keep the door shut.” I ducked out before I could hear her explanation of airflow in apartments.

  When I returned, Martha and her books had disappeared, leaving Brandi alone with her coffee and disgusted expression.

  “When do we get to vote her off the island?” Brandi flicked her hair out of her face, one hip leaning against the counter. Faint strains of Jane’s Addiction floated up the stairs.

  I helped myself to coffee. “Maybe she really is allergic. Maybe it’s Jezzy.”

  Brandi shot me a sharp look, eyes filled with daggers. “Don’t even go there. Don’t you dare put that thought into her head.”

  “Oh, and we should ignore the possibility that one day she may actually notice the litter box.”

  Brandi banged her mug on the counter and crossed her arms. “Cats eat moles.”

  I put the coffee pot down and faced her. “Yeah, but this mole pays rent.”

  Brandi pursed her lips, picked up her coffee and flounced out of the room. “She may pay rent,” she called over her shoulder, “but I’ll bet even if this cat went away, the mole wouldn’t play.”

  She did have a point.

  Chapter 5

  I ended up going to dinner with David on Saturday. I needed another day to recuperate and get some perspective on Halloween. He offered to pick me up, but I told him I’d meet him there.

  When I arrived at the Indian restaurant – his choice – David was already seated and had ordered a bottle of wine. I slid into the chair across from him. The smell of curry and exotic dishes permeated the air. The one-room restaurant was simply and elegantly decorated with dark gray carpet, black chairs, crisp white tablecloths and delicate candles.

  “Wow, a whole bottle of wine,” I said. “Usually I’m lucky if I get a bottle of beer.”

  He smiled and poured me a glass. “I find that hard to believe.” If anything, he looked better than he had the night of the party. He wore a maroon and black sweater, which brought out the blue in his turquoise eyes, and his dark blond hair curled around the collar of his sweater. With a sharp pang, I thought of Tommy and how good he looked in red. I swallowed the lump in my throat with a sip of wine. Chardonnay. Not my favorite, but as long as it had alcohol in it, it would do.

  His eyes followed my every move. “You look very beautiful tonight,” he said.

  Beautiful? I tried not to make a face. Cute I could buy, or pretty, or sexy, but not beautiful. Besides, he said it the way my father would. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

  He smiled again and sat up straighter. “I took the liberty of ordering seekh kebab for an appetizer. It should be here any minute.”

  First he ordered wine without consulting me, then an appetizer. What century did this guy come from? “Did you order my dinner as well?”

  He stared at me for a second, before dropping his eyes to his plate. “I didn’t think you’d mind. I was trying to make the evening special. I figured you’re the kind of girl who’d be used to guys treating you special.”

  He looked so hurt, so crestfallen, I instantly regretted my words. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I stammered out. “I guess I’m just used to taking a more active role in relationships. You know, women’s lib, feminism, all that. It sort of changed things like relationships.”

  The appetizer, lamb and vegetables on skewers, arrived before he could answer. “It looks good,” I said, taking a skewer, ignoring the fact that lamb wasn’t my favorite. He finally met my eyes and smiled a little. I took that as a good sign.

  While he served himself, I dug into my purse for my pills. “Just digestive enzymes,” I said, as I always did when eating with someone new. But he was staring at me with this strange, almost frozen look of shock.

  “What? You’ve never seen a girl take pills before?” I said, attempting to lighten the mood. He had such an intense, odd look in his eyes, it was starting to frighten me.

  He swallowed hard. “You have Cystic Fibrosis, don’t you?”

  I dropped my pill container on the table. Digestive enzymes flew everywhere, bouncing on the table, the chair, the floor. “What? How did … ”

  “I know?” he finished my sentence. “Do you?”

  I started retrieving my pills, my hands shaking so much I could barely pick them up. “Yes, I do. But how did you guess? My roommates haven’t even figured it out.”

  He knelt down on the floor to help me. “My sister died from Cystic Fibrosis. She was four.”

  “Oh, my G
od, I’m so sorry,” I stammered. I had never met anyone outside of those god-awful support groups who had lost someone to Cystic Fibrosis. And to lose a sister? Before I could stop myself, I heard myself saying, “I lost my sister, too. But not to Cystic Fibrosis. She was kidnapped when I was seven.”

  He had been picking up my enzymes, but now he became very still. “Really? Kidnapped at seven. Did she have Cystic Fibrosis as well?”

  I shook my head. “No. She was the picture of health. Golden curls, big blue eyes. She was perfect.”

  Something flashed across his face, some unreadable, peculiar expression. It disappeared so fast I wondered if I had imagined it. All I could there now was deep sympathy.

  “I’m sorry. I know first-hand how horrible it is to lose a sister.”

  “Yeah.”

  David reached over and put his hand over mine, gently squeezing. We were quiet for a moment. Then he straightened, rising to his feet and sitting back down. “I don’t mean to pry, but do you know what happened to her?”

  I shrugged. “No, not really. My parents never talked about it. But I keep having dreams that she was kidnapped by the fairies.” I laughed a little self-consciously. For the second time in two days, I was telling people I barely knew secrets I didn’t even acknowledge to myself. I wondered what that meant.

  David looked puzzled. “Fairies? What a fanciful notion.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure where it came from either.”

  “What kind of fairies, do you know?”

  “Just your garden-variety fairies. My father is pulling her in a wagon through a field, and the fairies come out and, well, take her.”

  “You saw this?”

  “No, no. It’s in my dream.”

  He nodded, sipping his wine. I swallowed my pills. Across the room a guy wearing an oversized red plaid shirt was arguing fiercely with the man across from him, jabbing his finger repeatedly into the table.

  “But,” I said, folding and unfolding my napkin, “what I really want to know is how you guessed I had Cystic Fibrosis. I mean, I know about your sister and all, but … ” I trailed off.