1 ½

The water was biting, hard: iced marbles on my back. From the headless pipe of that locker room shower came the panging reminder that our Bulldogs football team was just another sort of standard suckers. Couldn’t win a game against a local middle school. Something about the idea of victory out-of-reach just made the water feel more glacial—probably best to hit the iceberg and abandon ship. 

The bangs of Coach knocking his clipboard against the door frame seemed to pre-punctuate his command: “Let’s go, guys. They’re shuttin’ it down out here.” But, our actions had no punctual effect about them. The team was slow, distant, frigid in its fail. 

I eventually grabbed my bag with everything to take home as all the lights switched off. Out the door I paused, looking for who was normally attached to my side. When we saw each other, I trudged my way over, glazing a grin over my thawing disappointment.

“Finally,” Matty snapped. My twin brother was always sarcastic, always the one to make you frustratingly at ease, no matter the circumstances. He must have hurried out of the locker room early on, telling by his impatient grin and mellow glare. “We gotta hurry before—well you know. Don’t want anyone to see.” 

“You boys got a way home?” 

Small town coaches seemed to always have your back. One thing was incredibly certain in  those little places: your business was never just your business. Word got around. Coach had noticed that we were always waiting behind everyone else, usually with no one to pick us up. And, that word got around. I know it’s hard without their momma. The words swept through the dainty town as if screams in a hollow cave. I know their daddy never wanted to be a daddy. Bless their hearts. At least they got each other… It was comforting to have support, but the embarrassment made that whispering cave roar: we walked home every time.

“We got it, Coach,” I sent back with a nod. He nodded back, turned, and checked on some other players who were still hanging out. 

“Alright, Mason, let’s go.”

I followed along with Matty to the far north end of the small gravel parking lot. We ducked under the perimeter railing and found who we were looking for, next to the memorial benches crouched under the shadow of the only tree in the lawn. He approached us with a big grin, immediately praising us for our game. “Great game, guys. You guys really rock. I know it’s been a tough season but you really gotta know that there’s people cheering you on up there.”

We gave him a hug and some thanks when Matty said, “alright, buddy, it’s time.” 

The thing about twins is just like Vegas: what happens between us not only stays between us, but it’s also not very understandable to outside parties. What we knew was that we were different. And we hid it all. Because, really, no one would understand. See, we were connected, in a way that we remember from the beginning as being magnetic and tangible. And, no, this was not twin telepathy or whatever preconceived superpowers twins may have. It was a bond beyond the physical realm, something we discovered at a very early age. And something we used to make life just a little more warm when the forecast called for icy marbles, like when our dad never came to watch us play.

Our energies were able to combine to create a singular extension of ourselves. He looked and talked similarly to us, and retained memories from both of us. We called him Middie: like the “middle”—anyway, it was Matty’s idea.

Matty reached out his hand, as well as I, and we each grabbed hands with the boy. He closed his eyes, turned his face to his shoes, and, just like the water from that old headless pipe, fell to the ground cold. In the underbelly of the tree’s shade his body softly glowed with a transparent lavender, which—the way water may swirl into the drain—rose and beamed into mine and Matty’s open palms, and the light vanished. We held a secret, a power: twins with a blessing. 

That calm, shadowy tint in the air followed us the rest of the way home, to our common cream-colored double-wide, cushioned in the northern outskirts of town. No porchlight, lights out, but that nightly 10PM news channel beamed through the front window: Dad was home, probably knocked out on the couch. We snuck in and soft-shoed to our shared room down the hall, got in our respective beds and fell asleep to the sounds of the cool wind pushing through the open window and the meteorologist in the other room mentioning a calm and peaceful night. 

Darkness.

#

We woke up to the sound of flat-palm knocking on our door and the immediate smell of hungover beer. It was 7AM. While Dad may have been a drunk and nonexistent in terms of love, he still had responsibilities of waking up, getting dressed, and going to earn barely enough to pay for that double-wide rent as a farm-hand outside of town.

“I need one uh ya boys to come with me and move some equipment. I don’t care who. Just somebody get off your ass.” He left the room with the door open. 

Matty and I looked at each other from our comfortable positions, and, Matty knowing it was his turn to help Dad this time, heaved a sigh that could clear cigarette damage from one’s lungs. He stood, stretched, changed, left. And after hearing a chorus of a quick lunch being made, the door closing and locking, and Dad’s truck doors forcefully squeaking shut, the finale cued to silence with the fading noise of diesel exhaust and likely Matty’s exhaustion. I felt for him that morning. 

I ended up dozing back asleep to the warmth of the sun pressing itself against my bed sheets. I was still sore from the day before, and felt that fatigue rush into my head during my sleep. I woke up around 2PM with that same feeling pulsing from dehydration, and decided it was best to get up, get dressed, and leave that little shack for some sun and something to eat.

Per my expectations, there was no food in the house except a couple pieces of bread. But—lucky for me—Dad left his food stamps card on the table. I thought I’d make myself useful and take it for a snack for me and dinner for the family later. What else could I do? I couldn’t get hired for another year anywhere close, and anywhere else needed a car to get there. And Dad would probably only make enough for rent and a box of cheap beer. I took what I could get.

I went straight to the one little grocery store in town. About an hour walk from my house on the far north side. It was unusually warm outside for early October. Dry. But the heat felt energizing after sleeping in so long. And that shocking rush of blasting air conditioner when I entered the store was all I needed to know that walk was worth it. The shiver I felt when grabbing the cold metal of the shopping cart was a complement to the calming, warm welcome radiating from Liz, the store owner at the cash register.

Bread, cheap bologna for me. With today being long for Matty and Dad, I thought I’d make something hearty for the night: a can of chili and those sleeves of bakeable cinnamon rolls. It was a family favorite combo. Cheap and easy, like Dad would always say. 

I bought everything and stepped back out into the cooling air. By then, it was around 4 o’clock; I still hadn’t eaten. Sitting on the bench right outside the store, I reached in one of the bags and made a sandwich for right then and for the road, just meat and bread, and enjoyed the rush of food in my body with the dying bulb of sun in the air. 

On the way back, about twenty minutes from the house, Coach drove by. He was probably leaving the school and heading home. Expectedly, he stopped and rolled down his window, asked me if I needed a lift. And, for the first time of his many offers, I accepted: I had no company around to keep me distracted from the long walk, and my house was in the direction he was going, anyway. 

“Where’s brother?” he asked. 

“Oh, you know. Out helping today.”

He nodded and didn’t say much the rest of the ride, but gave me a “see ya at practice” and a “take care” once I got out of his truck and thanked him for the lift. 

I came inside to see Dad on the couch in his usual state: possessed by the TV and melted to the couch.

In an eerie echo of Coach, he said, “where’s your brother?”

“I thought he was with you.”

“Naw, he was s’posed tuh come back home ‘bout an hour ago. Maybe he went out. He’ll probably be back pretty quick.” 

Sometimes he went out on evening runs alone, so I figured he was out running the county roads. With that expectation, I decided to pull out a pot, start the stove, preheat the oven, and ignite my inner Chef Mason. By the time it was all done, the sun had gone down, and Matty was still out, so I fixed plates for Dad and me and sat down in front of the TV, where the local nightly news was airing. 

Mid-scoop of my first bite: “We have received breaking news that a 15 year old boy was hit by a drunk driver on the north side of Garfield. Further details are being investigated.” 

I set my plate down, trembling. My body went numb. Marbles on my back. Moments later, a trooper car pulled in front of the house, the red and blue lights shutting off as two men approached the house. 

Darkness.

#

The funeral was gut-wrenching. Closed-casket, the whole town there. It felt like the cave was just getting louder. You know he was declared dead at the scene? First their mom, now him; the poor boy must be torn apart. At least he’s got his daddy… I vomited in the bathroom during the service. I felt like a tree with termites, being eaten from the inside, and the pain was even more venomous and hollowing by the realization that while the cave was loud, no one would ever understand the feeling of losing someone born at the same time as yourself. I was alone. 

I slept in his bed every night for a month. I never left: skipped school the whole time. I had completely hollowed, and where the echoes could find places to bounce, they did within me. Because of this emptiness, I was wilted, a flower in a frost, straining for any reason to live. I had stolen some of Dad’s stash of liquor, got drunk with an alarming frequency. Cigarettes were easy to come by, too, especially in the junky town of Garfield. There were always some lying around the house. With all this in my system, though, nothing helped. I was empty. 

A liquor-induced, smoky night rolled around mid-November, and I was lying in my own bed when I reminisced the way I—we—used to manage problems all our lives: Middie. I had not ever tried to summon Middie without Matty, but something in me felt the push to try. What was there to lose? I was drunk, depressed, and empty. I needed my twin, or a semblance of him. Maybe Middie was what could bring back my Matty. 

I stood in the room. With the sound of the wind nudging itself through the cracked window, I heaved a sigh. Not one like Matty’s that morning, but one enough to ground me. I held out my hands and the glow began: soft lavender. Normally, I would have grabbed onto Matty’s hand, and our energies would connect, but this time, there was no connection I could make but with myself. I clasped my hands together. Heaving all I had, every emotion, thought, memory, any connection with Matty that existed within me was focused into my brightening hands. The wind began to nudge more aggressively, ever-so softly rattling the window.  My eyes closed, I felt my hands turn cool, as if I were back at the grocery store grabbing a cart. I released all I had and fell to the floor, and when I looked up, what I saw was what I remembered: my twin. Or at least a replica. Maybe I had saved myself; maybe I was able to silence the echoes. 

“Middie,” I said.

He looked at me, confused, standing in the middle of the room. He was wearing his own clothes, but I drunkenly offered him Matty’s. He changed and sat on his bed, and just looked at me: no words, no sighs, just a curious gaze. I asked him some things, like what was he feeling, and then finally let him know about Matty. But, strangely, no response. He wasn’t able to speak. My mind was too blurry to think anything, and I was completely wasted, exhausted; it was 2AM. I offered for us to sleep in the same bed, Matty’s bed,  and we both got in and instantly shut off. And my echoes didn’t scream that night. I slept in healing peace, the same way I did the last night Matty was in that bed.

#

I woke to the feeling of the sun warming my sheets, around noon, and I rose to get dressed, Middie still fast asleep. I decided to heat up some chili and a cinnamon roll for each of us, bringing it all back to the room so we could eat together. I woke him up with a gentle nudge, and he rose, stretching with his arms above his head.

Handing him the bowl, I noticed that he was confused as to what it was. “Eat it,” I chuckled, sticking a spoon in the chili. But he simply looked at the bowl as if appreciating a flower. I was shocked—Matty always loved chili, and Middie acting like this made it seem that he was not exactly human: just a vessel of energy. I took the bowl from him and sat it on top of the dresser. 

“Are you okay?” I asked. He nodded his head, again with no words, and I hesitantly accepted his answer, still a bit hungover from the night before.

I couldn’t bring him out in broad daylight, and definitely couldn’t let Dad see him, so for the next few hours, I tried to do stuff that Matty would’ve enjoyed: a racing game on the battered PlayStation, watching one of his favorite movies, even reminiscent board games from our childhood. He half-participated. Like the shower in the locker room, he didn’t seem to have a head on him. He was odd, nothing like Matty, and I was frustrated and nearly angry that Middie wouldn’t just be the comfort I always knew him to be. 

Finally, that evening, I went for Matty’s favorite: a wrestling match. Those always made us closer and let us fight anything out. It was a brotherly bond. I pounced on Middie and he fell to the ground instantly, not fighting back whatsoever, showing no physical signs of struggle or pain. And I noticed, upon closer look, he was vanishing before me. His arms were stiff, like a mannequin’s, unable to be moved, hard. His mouth was dry, unopened the entire time he existed since the night before. His eyes were glossy, with an unconscious stare, truly cold marbles. And his breathing was nonexistent. 

I jumped off of him in fear, thinking I may have killed him. But I think what I realized was that, as the sun fell into the west, his energy was falling out of his body. I sat him on the bed. Was this the end? Did I fail in saying goodbye? 

“You were my only brother,” I said, sitting next to him. “At least we have each other. Everyone knew that’s all we had. Each other. I can’t live another day with the feeling of me feeling like a light without a socket. I needed you! And—” I was getting uneasy, emotional. “And you were always there for me. But where was I for you on that road? Why did I not wait for you at the house? You were all I had, Matty! Everything.” I was sobbing into my hands, my elbows resting on my knees. I waited for a response. 

I looked up to see a frozen Middie: solid and soulless, faintly glowing lavender. I grabbed his hand and leaned on his shoulder.

“I couldn’t save you or me!” I was screaming. “Two peas in a pod and now I’m one and a half.” my tears fell on Middie’s lifeless body. “I don’t even have a way to say I love you.”

I clasped my fingers in Middie’s, heaving. My eyes were closed while the wind rushed into the window, making my tears cold. “I just hope you didn’t have to walk all the way to Heaven.”

The lavender glow filled the dim room, and with my eyes closed I could only see the tint through my eyelids. And in a flash of purple, I felt Middie swirl into me. I opened my eyes to see my hands clasped together, dimming slowly. 

I screamed. Sobbing. Pushing my face into the pillow of Matty’s bed. And as exhaustion put me to sleep, the sound of the 10PM news flicking on in front of the couch began its nightly briefing: “Our top story tonight—are there benefits to a cold shower?”

Darkness.