Paper Alice

by Charlotte Calder

  And yet the thought of not going was somehow worse. Of letting my life run on the same, like a train chugging on across some endless plain, with no horizon in sight.

  What’s that physics thingy? For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction.

  And yet as my watch hand crept around, I still couldn’t make up my mind. I seemed to be moving slowly and stiffly, stuck in a groove of indecision. Go . . . don’t go. Go . . . don’t go.

  Finally, when I’d queued for a smoothie at the juice bar, paid for it and was walking away, I’d looked at my watch one last time.

  12.57.

  And then I was running, or rather hobbling, full smoothie held out in front of me, for the social sciences building.

  They’d been a bit ambitious choosing a whole lecture theatre, even though it was only a small one. There were no more than about twenty people there, sitting down the front. A few people who were obviously organisers, including my recruiter, were standing out the front, below the stage.

  Us latecomers slid into seats (I got a smile and a little wave from my friend), then the girl in charge looked at her watch and announced that we’d better get started. She thanked us for coming, then gave a bit of a spiel about how rewarding it was all going to be, et cetera, et cetera. She said that the person who’d more or less got the program going at another uni would be appearing any minute; she was just running a few minutes late . . .

  And then that person dashed in.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, flashing a little smile, ‘I got held up.’

  I certainly didn’t need the introduction that followed and barely heard a word of anything she said. Where and how she’d been involved in the whole thing – UTS must’ve been mentioned I suppose – or her experiences of it. I just sat there, down one end of the second row, completely still. Sure that I must be starting to glow bright red with the shock of it all. Any minute now people were going to start glancing at me . . .

  But nobody did. Wilda went on talking, three metres away, smiling, shrugging, frowning, making little hand gestures. Also the odd little joke – I didn’t really register what they were, but people chuckled.

  It was like being connected to a humming voltage that sent out occasional little zaps of recognition. Especially when it came to question time. The way she tilted her chin down slightly when she laughed, for example, resting her finger on her chin. And the way she rolled her eyes.

  I’d never been very conscious of these mannerisms in myself, but they were instantly familiar when I saw them in her. It could have been me standing out there. And her skin was the same, and her hair . . .

  And her fingernails! Uneven-looking, with the odd bitten nail and ragged cuticle.

  My chest felt as though there was a weight pushing in on it; my hands had become slippery with sweat. I sank right down in my seat behind the person in front, hidden from her gaze.

  Her clothes – the standard jeans and T with a Vinnie’s-looking cardie on top – could have come straight from my wardrobe. And when I craned forward to catch a glimpse of her bag on the floor beside her, there it was. The red one, with multicoloured plaiting.

  Of course there were things about her that were different. The teeth with the gap, for a start. Not that there was anything wrong with them – they just hadn’t been straightened. And her accent (which certainly wasn’t foreign) seemed flatter, broader than my own; her way of speaking more direct, in-your-face.

  Plus her eyes . . . They were greeny-brown like mine, but there was something about them – a kind of toughness, a watchfulness. You somehow got the feeling that she wasn’t getting any financial help from her family.

  Suddenly the boy sitting next to me was raising his hand to ask a question. I shrank down still further, leaning away from him slightly.

  The other girl out in front pointed to him with a smile. ‘Yes?’

  Everyone looked our way. Right at the same moment the person in front of me bent forward to get something out of her bag.

  So there I was, exposed.

  Wilda’s gaze swung around. Then stopped dead.

  I watched, almost with detachment, as her mouth dropped open and her gaze in an instant went from warm-hazel to steel-sharp. Our eyes met, and in those two or so seconds – it seemed more like ten – my worst fears were confirmed.

  Spiro had told her about me and here I was, the crazy lookalike who claimed to be her sister. The weirdo who showed up at meetings, apologised on her behalf, then scuttled out like a frightened crab.

  Then the girl in front straightened up again in her seat, mercifully blocking me again. Not that it was much of a relief. My heart was pounding in my ears; I felt as though I was choking.

  I briefly considered doing another runner, but knew that that would only make the whole thing worse. There was nothing for it but to sit here until the end, tough it out, and try and explain.

  I wondered how angry she’d be.

  But she seemed rattled too – why wouldn’t she be? I could no longer see her properly, but she was sounding a bit distracted, had lost her momentum. Once or twice I risked a peek at her, but shrank back down when I saw her gaze moving in my direction.

  And then came another surprise.

  ‘Well,’ I heard her announce, as though she’d just glanced at her watch, ‘I’m afraid I’m gunna have to fly; Larissa will get your details. Please – sign up!’

  Larissa thanked her, there was a mini-round of applause and she headed for the door, bag over her shoulder. For a moment it seemed as though she was going to turn her head and look at me, but she didn’t.

  Then she was gone.

  I sat there, shell-shocked. Feeling humiliated and cheated at the same time. She’d obviously decided that the best policy was to ignore me. As though I was some crazy person on the street, wild-eyed and ranting, with whom you avoid making eye contact.

  I barely remember shuffling out at the end of the meeting – too agitated and demoralised to do anything about joining up. I murmured, ‘I’ll think about it’, to the girl. After all, they were wanting sane volunteers for Students as Siblings, not nut cases.

  It was after I’d gone down the stairs, out of the building, and was wandering aimlessly back up the road, that the tap came on my shoulder.

  I spun around, and there she was.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey . . .’

  We stared at one another. I registered that she had the beginnings of a pimple on her chin. Wondered if she blobbed Clearasil on it at night, like me.

  She shrugged and gave a little grin. ‘So . . . Did you sign up?’

  I shrugged, half-smiling. There were more important things to discuss.

  ‘I – I’m sorry . . . for saying I was your sister–’

  She looked at me, brow creasing slightly.

  ‘Yeah, I heard about that.’

  ‘From Spiro?’

  ‘Y-ep.’ A faint smile was hovering at her mouth.

  I swallowed, rushed to explain. ‘It was just that . . . well, everyone was staring at me and . . .’

  I stopped, shaking my head.

  ‘S’ Okay.’ Wilda grinned again, making a face. ‘I guessed that.’

  I almost laughed with relief.

  ‘Was that you,’ I asked, after a moment, ‘at the ball?’

  She took a deep breath, nodded.

  ‘I thought it was you I saw in the distance, and this guy I know said he’d bumped into my double . . .’ She smiled. ‘I should’ve come up to you on the dance floor, but the truth was–’ another shrug ‘–I was shit scared.’

  This time I did laugh, right out loud.

  ‘You! Why?’

  She seemed too direct, too down-to-earth, to get nervous. Unlike me.

  We looked at one another and laughed again.

  ‘I’ve been too,’ I said. ‘Shit scared!’

  ‘It’s not every day you meet your double.’

  ‘Nup.’

  Almost without noticing it we’d drifted over to a ne
arby bench, under a plane tree, and sat down. A dead leaf seesawed down in front of us like a scrap of stiff cloth, landing scratchily in a drift.

  ‘So anyway,’ she said after a moment. ‘What d’you reckon?’

  I looked at her enquiringly. She shrugged again.

  ‘Separated at birth, or what?’

  I gave another squawk of laughter.

  ‘I don’t–’ I started, then stopped, Dad’s words that day at the pond coming back to me, yet again.

  I was suddenly conscious of my own breathing.

  There was another pause, then we turned to one another.

  ‘When’s your birthday?’ we asked, both at once.

  Wilda went first.

  ‘Twenty-third of May, 1987.’

  The let-down felt physical, like a jolt of air turbulence. I sighed.

  ‘Twenty-eighth of June, 1988.’

  We laughed ruefully; shook our heads.

  ‘Anyway, as if!’ she cried.

  ‘Well, we could be sisters,’ I said, half-jokingly. ‘Couldn’t we? Born – what? Thirteen months apart?’

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘Sydney,’ I said, picturing the hospital card lovingly pasted in the front of my Baby Record Book. ‘At the Prince of Wales Hospital.’

  She looked at me for a moment, then frowned.

  ‘Melbourne,’ she said, ‘or so I’ve always been told . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I hardly know anything about my mother. Apparently she died when I was only a few months old; I was brought up by my father’s family.’

  The word ‘apparently’ hung between us like a question mark. I laughed uneasily.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t think she could’ve been my mum. We’ve got a whole heap of photos of Mum and Dad after they were married, in the three or four years before they had me. I don’t remember seeing any pregnancy bulges!’

  ‘Nah . . .’ Wilda shook her head and smiled; we both did. It was all too far-fetched.

  A sudden stir of wind in the trees showered us with raindrops.

  ‘Well anyway,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘everyone’s meant to have a double somewhere in the world . . .’

  ‘And I guess,’ she finished, ‘we’re it!’

  ‘Yep.’

  But she’d suddenly caught sight of something; was staring down at it, wide-eyed. And I didn’t have to follow her gaze to know what it was.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said quietly, reaching down to touch my bag, nodding at hers. ‘Really scary.’

  ‘Are we . . .’ She trailed off, suddenly looking pale. ‘Have we entered some . . . alternative universe, or something?’

  Despite my pitter-pattering heart, I felt another surge of relief. So it wasn’t just neurotic me who found the whole thing so disturbing.

  ‘Great minds thinking alike, I guess . . .’ And I told her about the woman at the markets; at which point she duly confirmed that yes, she’d bought her bag there too.

  We stared at one another again. I wondered if she felt as sweaty as me.

  Then we came to the newspaper article.

  ‘It made me sound like a total wanker,’ she said. ‘I said something jokey about “the colours of fire and earth”, and they quoted me as though I was serious! Talk about embarrassing–’

  I laughed, feeling another rush of warmth towards her. It was just what might have happened to me – in the highly unlikely event of the paper taking my photo, that is. People quite often take my flippant remarks seriously.

  ‘And do you get strangers coming up to you,’ I asked, ‘mistaking you for me – like Spiro did? And that guy at the ball . . .’

  She thought about it, tilting her head.

  ‘One or two people have smiled or waved at me as though they knew me, but–’ Then she remembered. ‘Until here, this morning, when this chick just about hugged me before she realised!’

  ‘Lily,’ I said, chuckling. ‘After she told me, I actually went running about the place looking for you.’

  ‘And now you’ve found me,’ she said with a grin. ‘We’ve found . . .’

  ‘Each other.’

  We gazed across the road, smiling. A girl walking past glanced at us in the way you look at twins, or lookalike sisters. I felt a fleeting – and ridiculous! – flash of pride.

  ‘So,’ she said at last. ‘I s’pose this is all one giant coincidence, but . . .’

  ‘You really would think we were related.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You know,’ I said suddenly, ‘I’ve had braces.’

  She turned and stared at me again.

  ‘Yep,’ I said quietly. ‘I even had your gap, before–’

  I stopped. Suddenly and without warning my eyes had filled with tears. One or two brimmed over and ran down my cheeks.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ I cried, wiping at them. ‘Sorry – it’s just . . . It’s all–’

  Then I noticed that her eyes were watery too. She half-laughed.

  We sighed; stared straight ahead again. Then I turned to her once more.

  ‘Your name is so . . . Is your family German?’

  She frowned.

  ‘My mother’s family were, as far as I know, but . . . I’ve never met any of them.’ Suddenly there was a hardness in her eyes, a hint of the toughness I’d already sensed in her. ‘From what I can understand, my parents were never really a couple. It was never a real love affair, just a brief fling, of which I was the outcome.’

  She stared away again, then gave a small laugh. ‘Weird when you think you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for some random accident.’

  I didn’t know what to say; finally muttered something about us all being random accidents of genes.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but at least you know who you are – where you come from!’

  I was beginning to wonder.

  ‘You’d think my mum was a street walker,’ she went on, ‘for all the family – Dad’s family – want to talk about her.’ She snorted. ‘For all I know, she might’ve been! There aren’t even any photos of her – not that I’ve seen anyway.’

  Something caught in my throat.

  ‘Almost,’ I said, ‘like being adopted . . .’

  Another bitter laugh.

  ‘Exactly! When she died there apparently wasn’t anyone, or no one willing anyway, on her side to take me on, so Dad’s mum and dad brought me up. Except that my grandfather had MS – multiple sclerosis – so it was always a struggle for my grandmother. I used to get shunted around quite a bit to various rellos. Like – sometimes for months or even a year at a time. Changed schools quite a few times.’ She made a wry face. ‘Like a lost parcel.’

  I swallowed. Tried to imagine a childhood of not really belonging – to anyone. It made me feel all still and grey, like a sink full of cold dishwater.

  ‘A lost parcel they couldn’t even re-address!’ She gave another short laugh. ‘Much as they disowned Mum’s family, no one could be bothered to change my name to theirs.’

  ‘But,’ I ventured, ‘what about your dad?’

  ‘Dad?’ She shook her head. ‘He seems to’ve been like a big kid himself – drifting around the country, not ready to take on fatherhood. I think he was a bit younger than my mother. Left it all to my grandparents.’ She shrugged again. ‘He’s still a bit like that really, even though he’s married now, with little kids. They live in Darwin. About,’ she added sardonically, ‘as far away as they can possibly be.’

  ‘So . . .’ I was suddenly reminded of Milly, ‘You don’t see much of him?’

  ‘Put it this way.’ Her eyes had gone quite flat. ‘They haven’t been about to fork out for airfares, and I certainly can’t afford it, not on my student allowance. Not,’ she added woodenly, ‘that I’d waste my money on it, even if I could.’

  I could barely believe a father who didn’t want to see his own child.

  ‘Your stepmother–’

  She sighed. ‘You couldn’t really call her the wicked stepmother. It’s more that . . . she’d rather f
orget about my existence. I represent a part of his life she doesn’t want to know about. She doesn’t exactly . . . encourage visits.’

  Once again, I was reduced to silence.

  ‘I haven’t actually seen any of them for more than three years.’

  I stared at her, suddenly remembering an article I’d recently read about orphaned babies in China – or was it North Korea – left lying in their cots all day, untended and unloved. Emotionally, if not physically, starving. I swallowed again.

  ‘Is there . . . anyone . . .’

  ‘I was fairly close to my grandparents.’ She stared out across the road again. A group of students who obviously all knew one another were coming out of the building opposite, talking and laughing and mucking around. ‘But Pops died,’ she went on, ‘and Nan’s got Alzheimer’s – she’s in a home now. My auntie Bec – Dad’s sister – has always been good, but she’s got four kids of her own. The person I’m probably closest to is one of my cousins – Ryan – who’s my age. I can always ring him up for a chat.’

  I almost said that she could ring me, too, but didn’t. It would have seemed presumptuous – she was talking about relatives and we barely knew one another.

  Except on some level, it felt as though we did.

  ‘So,’ I asked, ‘how come you came up here to uni, from Melbourne?’

  Another quick shrug. I wondered if I did this as much as she did.

  ‘Why does anyone leave their home town – to go somewhere else?’ She grinned. ‘Action, romance . . . adventure!’

  I laughed. ‘Well, you certainly seem to be pretty adventurous. With your plays, and things . . .’

  I actually found it fairly impressive that a nineteen-year-old with such shaky family ties would want to move somewhere new. If I were her, I thought, I’d probably want to stay put; cling on to what I had.

  Then again, I wasn’t her.

  It turned out she was studying second-year communications at UTS. She’d always been young for her year at school. Before coming to Sydney she’d worked for a year waitressing, so that she’d qualify for the Austudy allowance. She was doing a bit of bar work now to top it up. And as for the writing, she told me she’d been writing stuff since she was little – poems and short stories, mainly, but plays were what interested her at the moment.