by Emma Young
“Not only with stories.”
“. . . So you mean, apart from liking Nerds and knowing all these inscriptions on bench plaques?”
Which makes me smile. “Yeah, apart from that.”
“Okay.” He nods. “When I was six, I asked Santa for a metal detector. And I got one. That was the start of my metal period. I took it everywhere. Supermarket. Park. Bus stops.”
“Your metal period.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find anything?”
“If you call a handful of nickels and rusty nails anything.”
But there was a hesitation before he answered that makes me say: “You did find something?”
“Here you go, guys.” The waitress puts down two Guinness coasters and two tall glasses of Diet Coke, with ice and lemon.
Joe thanks her without looking at her.
“I never told anyone before,” he says.
I wait.
“I didn’t tell Mom because I knew she wouldn’t let me keep it. I put it in my pocket and I took it home, then I put it in this little blue plastic treasure chest. Then I put that in my secret drawer and I didn’t tell anyone.”
“What was it?”
“A gold tooth.”
I grimace. I know I do. I feel myself do it.
“I found it in the woods behind the park near our house.”
“Someone’s tooth?”
He takes a sip of his Coke. “Then that night I woke up thinking, what if it came from a skull? What if there was a murdered person buried out there and no one knew about it? But I didn’t want anyone to take the tooth away, and I thought, if they’re dead, it won’t change anything now. So I kept quiet.”
“You don’t still have it?”
“When I was twelve, we had this lesson on ancient Rome and the teacher told us they used amulets. They thought they could provide protection from magic or disease. Archaeologists found some in Roman bath houses. The Romans must have thrown them into the water. I thought, if my tooth came from a dead person, maybe it could act as an amulet—as protection from death . . . So I took it to the bridge over the stream in the park near our house and I threw it in.”
“And it’s worked so far,” I tell him, because I’m not sure what else to say.
Silence. Then he says, “It wasn’t my life I was asking for.”
My heart suddenly races. Why didn’t I know right away? His mother. He must be talking about his mother.
I find myself cast into what feels like the far, distant past.
I’m in my chair, by the window in my pre-op room, trying to force myself to face my broken reflection. Outside, a couple of kids in puffer jackets are putting the finishing touches on a snowman. There’s a man and a woman—
I screw my eyes shut. Quickly, I say, “You were there—at the hospital? In March. In the park, in the snow. Where the statue of Pan is. With a man and a woman with long dark hair.”
I open my eyes. I expect Joe to look struck. Or stunned.
He doesn’t. He shakes his head. “No.”
“March fifteenth.”
He frowns. “Why? What did you see?”
“She was beautiful . . . Was she your mother?”
“My mother was blond.”
The last boy I saw with my eyes, apart from Elliot . . . ? It would have been too much of a coincidence. His mother’s dead.
“What happened?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer.
“You ready for me to take your order, folks?”
Joe doesn’t acknowledge the waitress.
I force myself to. “What’s good?” I ask her.
“I love the shepherd’s pie.”
“Two of those, please.”
When she’s gone, Joe looks at me, and I swear I see a tornado in his soul. I can’t look too long, or it’ll suck me in. And I want to be sucked in, but I can’t right now. I can’t.
A new song starts up. There’s a whoop from the bachelorette party girls. One is at the microphone now, I realize. The band’s singer, an older woman in tight leather pants, is standing behind her and clapping. The guitars kick in, and the girl starts singing.
What should I say to Joe? What can I say?
I find myself defaulting to a method of dealing with panic that I learned back at the hospital.
Seven-eleven.
Five, six, seven . . .
“What are you doing?” Joe asks quietly.
In the gap before the in-breath, I quickly say, “Nothing.”
“You’re controlling your breathing. What’s wrong? Is it what you said?”
I don’t answer.
“Is it what you’re going to ask Althea?”
Althea.
There’s a clock by the bar: 8:42 P.M.
“Are you going to ask her what Sylvia liked?” he says. “Chocolate ice cream or butterscotch? Rom coms or horror?”
There’s an edge to his tone. I don’t like it. And I feel bad, but I won’t retreat.
“If you were describing yourself, what would you say?” I ask him. “For someone to know you? Drives a big silver car? Hangs out in parks? Is that what you’re like?"
“I’m not very deep.”
“That is so ridiculously untrue.”
He frowns at the table.
I want to tell him how sorry I am. I want to say I’m here to talk to, if he wants to talk. But the waitress returns yet again. She deposits cutlery and napkins and Worcestershire sauce.
Cutlery. Napkins. Worcestershire sauce. Such ordinary, everyday things.
He gets down from his chair. I guess I look worried, because he says, “Bathroom.”
I watch him go, and everything feels wrong.
Why didn’t I know right away? And Worcestershire sauce. Shepherd’s pie. I should have ordered American food. Pizza. Burgers. Sliders. Or steak. Steak or sliders—what did Sylvia eat after an awesome gig?
“Hey! It’s you!”
My head spins around.
He’s standing right by my table. I recognize him. The turkeys. The guy from Starbucks. Brandon. He’s wearing a blue sports jersey, tight across his chest. Heading rowdily for the bar behind him is a group of men, all a little older, also in blue jerseys.
He flashes me another of those confident smiles. He smells like he and everything about him has just been laundered. This is an exhibit. This boy.
“You aren’t here on your own?” he asks.
He glances past me—at the two soda glasses, I guess.
I force my mind into focus. “No . . .”
“No,” he says. “Obviously.” He grins. “So, it’s Rosa, right?”
I nod.
“How’s the family visit going?”
“Yeah . . . okay.”
“Where is home? I didn’t ask.”
I hesitate. “London.”
“You’re not in high school? Or college?”
What do I tell him? I find myself saying, “Actually, I sing in a band.”
“Really?”
The way he says this, it isn’t doubting. He’s impressed. He believes me.
“You look like a singer,” he says.
Yes, this strikes me as an odd thing to say. But, despite my personal inexperience, I think I understand that this conversation isn’t about the words we are exchanging, but something else entirely. And this boy is not Joe. He is easier. More yielding. I find myself smiling a little, biting my lip.
“There you go. That’s a singer’s smile . . . You here with your boyfriend?”
“Not really,” I say.
“He’s not really your boyfriend, or he’s not really here?”
Again, I smile. I get the sense I don’t need to do anything else to keep this interaction going.
“That was your boyfriend in Starbucks, right? He seems intense. Though maybe I’d be protective, if you were standing there chatting to this interesting guy . . .”
“Having a meaningful conversation about turkeys.”
“Right.�
�� He’s smiling.
From the bar, a man shouts, “Brandon!”
He ignores it. “So how long are you in town? If you get tired of being around family, I could show you some of the sights.”
“What,” I say, “like a turkey farm?”
He pretends to flinch. “Like the belfry.”
There’s a wink in his expression. I have no idea what the belfry is, but I suspect I have the gist of what going there would entail.
“I could take you to Ranc’s for ice cream,” he says. “Take you on the bone cruise.”
“Ranc’s I like. The bone cruise?”
He grins, and it is kind of endearing. “I love the way you say that,” he says. “Makes it sound like something totally more interesting.”
Absolutely, I have the gist.
"Brandon!”
He holds up a hand to acknowledge the shout but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Why don’t I take your number?” he asks.
“Yeah . . . Actually, I don’t have a cell phone while I’m here.”
"Really? Okay. Don’t go anywhere.”
He heads over to the bar, and after a moment he’s slipping back between a couple of the old guys in flying jackets with a pen.
When he reaches my table, he says, “Where should I write this?” He’s glancing at my chest. My chest.
I roll up the right sleeve of my top. On my inner forearm he writes a phone number. He takes his time, his hand gently brushing my skin. But I don’t tremble. I hold it in.
When he’s finished, I roll down my sleeve. He gives me a smile loaded with intent. Then he goes over to his friends.
I close my eyes, and I breathe.
Oh my God, I think. What it is to be me.
A couple of minutes pass between Brandon leaving and Joe returning, so I’m guessing—of course, I’m hoping—Joe didn’t see what happened.
My sleeve’s over my arm. But I can still feel exactly where the nib and Brandon’s hand touched my skin. If I looked down now and the numbers were burning through the cotton of my top, I’m not sure I’d even be surprised.
I should feel . . . I should feel, I think, ashamed. Yet, I don’t.
As Joe sits back down, he says something I don’t quite catch.
“What’s that?”
“I said, you okay?”
He shouldn’t be the one asking that. I should be asking him.
The music’s louder now, I’m sure of it, and the smell of pizza and grilled meat and perfume is more intense. Or maybe I’m just admitting more of everything deeper into my brain. Like Brandon. Like Joe. The way Joe’s sitting now, his T-shirt has shifted, and I can see the tan line around his neck. I wonder what he would look like without the T-shirt.
He checks his phone and says, “8:54. You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Deep breath. “No. But thanks.”
I wish I could say something to ease the atmosphere between us, but I don’t know what. Now is not the right moment to ask him more about his mother.
“I feel an element of responsibility for you,” he says. And I realize he’s justifying why he offered to come with me.
“You don’t need to,” I tell him. Gently, I think. Or at least that’s how I meant it to sound.
He shrugs. But not in a dismissive way.
The instant I’m down from my chair, my nerves kick in. If this is another roller coaster, I’m strapped in the car and it’s pulling away.
“Will you wait here for me?” I ask Joe.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
28.
It isn’t difficult to find the kitchen. I watch for a waitress with empty plates and follow her to a pair of swinging doors.
Before going in, I mentally rehearse one last time what I’m going to say. It’s not the twin explanation part I’m worried about; I don’t expect I’ll need to go into much detail, and there’s the fact of my face to support my claim. It’s the rest: what I ask Althea. What did Sylvia love? What were her dreams? Can I be so bald about it? I guess I’ll have to feel my way.
I walk into the kitchen and blink. It’s so bright—and hot. I take in industrial ovens and a couple of steel tables. Heat lamps hang over one table, pizzas glistening underneath. At the other, a man with a shaved head, in a white T-shirt, his arms sleeved with tattoos, is chopping red peppers.
Another chef, in full whites, is frying something. He notices me. But it’s a waitress, hurrying in and over to the pizzas, who spins and says, “I’m sorry, the kitchen is staff only.”
“I’m looking for someone,” I tell her. “Althea Fernando.”
“Althea?”
“She said she works here.”
The waitress lifts a plate to her forearm. “Her shift’s about to finish. But you’re not supposed to be in here. Let me go find her and bring her out. Just give me a minute, okay?” Another two plates of pizza clasped in her hands, she pushes through the doors and heads back into the bar.
I wait.
I don’t have a watch or a phone, but it feels like a long time. Neither of the chefs seems bothered that I’m here. I’ve been waiting so long. Months. I can’t wait any longer.
As I can’t see Althea, I skirt the wall, heading past the ovens and a double fridge. I come to a door marked FIRE EXIT, with a bar handle. The whooshing sound of a dishwasher is soft in the background. Toward the back of the kitchen, there’s another metal table laden with kitchen supplies—
And there she is.
Caramel skin. Hair up in a loose, high bun. Thinner than she looked in the photos. She’s in whites, and she’s wiping down the tabletop. It’s only when I get close that she notices me.
The shock in her huge eyes freezes my tongue.
The cloth in her hand drops to the floor.
“You look—” She stops. “My aunt—”
“Sylvia was my sister.” I whisper it so quietly that I have to say it again. “Sylvia was my sister. I’m her twin. I was brought up with another family.”
Althea stares at me. I see everything in her eyes. Every emotion I can think of.
Abruptly, she makes for the fire exit. I follow, catching the door just as it’s about to close, emerging onto a concrete area at the back of the building.
A spotlight illuminates four industrial plastic garbage bins and a metal bucket half-full of sand, scattered with cigarette butts. Beyond this little concrete oasis is blackness—trees. Bass booms from the windows around the side of the pub.
Althea pulls a pack of Marlboros and a lighter out of her pocket. With a trembling hand, she frees a cigarette. Holds the pack out to me. I shake my head. She lights the cigarette, takes a long drag. Returns the pack and lighter to her pocket.
I’m waiting, wondering what she’ll say and whether I should offer more of my story.
At last, she looks at me again. “Sylvia didn’t have a sister,” she says.
I’m prepared for this. “She didn’t know she did. She never knew about me. I only just found out about her.”
Althea takes another drag. She shakes her head a little, to herself. “So you’re telling me you’re twins and your parents had you adopted.”
“Yes.”
She nods.
Now do I ask if she’ll talk about Sylvia? Perhaps I should wait.
After blinking up at the sky, she presses the heel of her free hand first to one eye then the other. “I wasn’t going to see you,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Then my aunt called. She said, there’s someone around who looks just like Sylvia. She wanted to warn me. In case I saw you and—” She knocks a column of ash to the ground, takes another drag. “So it’s not that you’re some girl who’s seen pictures of Sylvia in the media and you think you look like her, so now you’re here to—what—fuck with her family? Try to get their money? Her mother had a stroke.”
Such sudden vehemence. It’s my turn to be shocked. “I—”
She interrupts angrily: “I know that family. They wouldn’t give a daughter up
for adoption. So—what—they aren’t Sylvia’s biological parents? She looked just like her mom! Listen to you! Are you British? Some British family took you? Is that what you’re saying?”
I try to keep my self-control. “They are her biological parents,” I say.
“But then—”
I reach up and pull off the wig.
Sylvia’s wavy, dark hair falls down around my shoulders.
Althea stares so hard her face jerks. She looks away. Looks right back. Takes a short, hard drag. “What do you want?”
“Just to find out about her. What kind of person she was.”
“So you’ve seen her dad, right? Your dad? He knows you’re here?”
Now what do I say?
“He doesn’t know? But they know you’ve found out about her?”
“I thought I’d find out about Sylvia first,” I tell her.
“You did?”
“I didn’t expect—” And I find I can’t finish my sentence.
“What?” she says bitterly. “Her to be dead? People to be upset by you turning up like this? I mean—you didn’t know her, right? You never knew her. She’s gone now. But you never knew her.”
I say softly, “I feel like I know her. I want to.”
Althea drops the cigarette and grinds it with her shoe.
She’s about to go back in.
“Althea—”
She’s already turned away, but she looks back at me. “I almost get it. I am sorry for your loss. Such as it is. But she was my best friend. I was just beginning to feel like life could maybe happen without her. And now you turn up and you didn’t even know her. I shouldn’t have said I’d see you. I didn’t know. Please don’t come here again.”
“Althea, please—”
“If you try to come in this way, or into the kitchen, I’ll call security. And then I’ll call her dad.”
She vanishes inside. The fire door slams shut.
I stare at the sky. It’s the color of pencil lead, blank with clouds. No moon. No stars.
I’m standing behind O’Neill’s, alone. What now? A minute passes.
A rush up my spine. The fire door’s opening.
Althea steps out, her face drawn. “It’s a shock, okay? To see you.”
I nod quickly.
“If you want to talk, I’ve got a few minutes.” She rubs her eyes.
While Althea reaches again for her cigarettes, I watch her. The smell of her last cigarette—or maybe just of the stubs in the bucket—lingers in the air. I feel sick, and while it’s not directly to do with the smoke, it isn’t helping.