The Twin Truth

Four plates were balanced on one arm, a drink and another two on the other. They teetered dangerously close to slipping onto the floor, and Harper gritted her teeth, narrowly swerving to avoid a shrieking ten-year-old boy, hair matted with sweat, shoving fistfuls of chips into his mouth. She finally breathed a sigh of relief once she reached the kitchen and deposited all of the licked-clean plates to where the kitchen staff glared at her, which Harper ignored. Why did an entire sports team have to come in right now? When they were understaffed and Harper was the only server on duty. And she had barely finished her training –this was her first shift without a supervisor watching, without having someone cleaning up her messes.

‘You getting the rest of the plates?’ Someone barked above the sizzling of potatoes being plunged into vats of oil. Harper nodded, wiping the beaded perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand. Even though the smell of fast-food was almost overpowering, Harper could smell herself, her armpits drowned in sweat, the sour stench of hard work that she still wasn’t used to.

One of the boys on the sports team had decided to mash his half-chewed burger into his unfinished glass of Coke, lining the rim of the cup with tomato sauce to make a vomit-inducing concoction that made bile rise to the back of Harper’s throat. She had to remind herself once, twice, three times: she needed this job. She needed this money. Nothing could make her quit now.

‘Harper! Table twelve. They’re a little spicy; been waiting a while. Be warned.’ One of the chefs, a stout man with whisps of thin, salt-and-pepper hair, cautioned, pushing two identical plates of double-cheeseburgers and chips towards her, along with a side-salad she was positive would remain untouched.

‘Got it. Thanks.’ Harper grumbled, although there was nothing much she could do. She was at the mercy of the chefs, and was nothing but a messenger, but the customers never saw that. They hardly even bothered to utter a thank you when she delivered their food.

Harper feigned a smile and gracefully delivered the food to two well-dressed men, both slouching with their arms folded tightly across their chests and a can-I-speak-to-your-manager sort of smirk on their faces.

‘Alright, I’ve got two cheeseburgers for you two gentlemen, sorry for the wait,’ Harper chirped.

‘Double cheeseburgers,’ one of the men corrected snidely. ‘We ordered double cheeseburgers. God, half-hour wait and don’t even get the order right. How much time do you think we have?’

‘Right, of course, sorry,’ Harper said quickly. ‘Double cheeseburgers. My mistake. Um, let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you two.’ She felt her cheeks flush a rosy pink. One of the men grumbled something about ‘service these days’ while the other had already begun shovelling chips into his mouth.

Harper hadn’t even caught her breath before another instruction was barked at her. ‘Table four, Harper. Come on, we’ve got a backlog.’ It was the same chef as before, sliding a sizzling fish-and-chips beside the only salad Harper thought she’d seen all evening.

‘Sorry,’ Harper mumbled, balancing the plates on her arm. She wasn’t sure they actually did have a backlog –that hardly ever happened, and Harper could still see tiny bubbles of oil popping on the battered fish.

‘Alright, I’ve got fish-and—’ Harper’s mouth went dry as she glanced up at the customers. Her body stiffened. Her tongue fell to the bottom of her mouth, which was suddenly slack and open. ‘A –and fish, I mean, I mean chips,’ she stammered.

‘That’s mine, thank you,’ A woman said. Beautiful, couldn’t have been more than thirty. Golden-brown hair that sat in waves down her back, a pointed jaw with a tiny cleft in the chin.

Harper knew this woman. This was her best friend.

And this woman died six months ago.

Harper didn’t even notice the plates slide off her arms and tumble to the floor. The plates shattered, the fish split down the middle and oily lettuce leaves mingled with shards of shattered ceramic, adding a crunch to the otherwise bland salad.

The woman’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh, sorry, was that my fault? Sorry, let me help you clean that up.’

‘No! No, sorry, I mean, thank you, I have it,’ Harper mumbled. ‘Sorry for this. I’m really sorry.’

Harper knelt down among the fallen food and began shepherding it into a pile with her arms. She didn’t have a plan –her throat was dry; her heart pounding. It was Amara, wasn’t it? She looked identical, completely down to her honey-brown eyes and pointed nose that was ever so slightly tilted downwards. But no, that wasn’t possible. This woman didn’t recognise her. And Amara was dead.

‘I’m sorry, are you –are you Amara?’ Harper asked incredulously. She couldn’t help herself.

‘Harper!’ Someone shrieked behind her. ‘I am incredibly sorry for the mishap, ladies. She’s new, and still learning. I assure you; your dinner will be brought out as soon as possible.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ Amara-but-not-Amara said. ‘Mistakes happen.’

Harper suddenly froze. Her blood ran cold. She swallowed, but no saliva ran down her throat.

Was that passive-aggressive? Was that comment meant to put Harper on edge, to make guilt come and swallow her up alive? Could she not escape Amara’s death, even in an entirely different country?

‘Get in the kitchen,’ the chef hissed, his thumb jutting into her arm.

Amara swallowed again, this time smothering the lump that was forming in her throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

Harper already knew what was coming.

‘God, Harper, what happened out there? Why did you drop all that food?’

‘I just –I thought she looked like someone I know. Knew.’ She corrected, her voice small.

‘Jesus, Harper. You can’t just waste so much food like that, when we’re already understaffed.’ The chef ran a hand over his head, gently massaging his forehead.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harper mumbled in response.

The chef sighed, a low, disappointed sound. ‘Look. You’re new here. You clearly don’t have much experience working as a waitress. Clean up the mess you made. Then go home.’

The lump formed in Harper’s throat again. ‘What? A –are you firing me?’

‘No, Harper. I’m calling in a replacement until I can tell the manager what happened. Then he might fire you. But no, I’m not firing you.’

The chef, while being one of the more senior members of the staff, didn’t have the power to fire anyone. But from his expression, Harper could tell if he did, he would fire her in a heartbeat.

‘Sorry,’ Harper muttered again, her head low, her cheeks flushed bright pink. ‘I’ll clean it up now.’

‘And apologise to the customers!’ The chef barked after her. ‘It’s their food you dropped.’

Harper knelt down beside the table, gently sweeping the glistening leaves of lettuce towards the pan, where she scooped it up.

‘Need any help?’

‘No, thank you. I’m very sorry about this, too. I assure you; you’ll be compensated for this mishap.’ Harper declared, although she wasn’t entirely sure it was true. The restaurant was already losing money because of the meals she dropped.

‘That’s okay, I’m more than happy to wait. We did leave a little earlier than usual. But if you don’t mind me asking, did you call me Amara earlier?’ The woman, Amara’s doppelganger, said, her tone so saccharine Harper could almost taste it.

‘Uh, yeah, sorry. I thought you were someone –you look like someone I used to know. Sorry, it was just a bit of a shock, is all,’ Harper said, chuckling dryly.

The woman smiled warmly. ‘Yeah, I used to get that a lot. Until I moved here, and then people stopped recognising me as much.’

Harper’s brow drew together. The dustpan of fish batter and an assortment of vegetables trembled in her hand.

‘Do I –do I know you?’ She stammered.

The woman laughed. A warm, tender laugh, that Harper wanted to savour and play on repeat until her ears bled.

‘No. My name’s Felicity. I think you knew my sister. Her name was Amara.’

‘Y –you’re Amara’s –Amara’s,’ Harper stammered. She was vaguely aware that the dustpan had fallen to the floor, smattering fish and lettuce onto the carpet for the second time that evening.

‘Sister, yes. Twin, actually. I lived with our dad, which is why you might not have known about me. Amara always liked our dad better, and was pretty upset when he moved here and she didn’t get to visit anymore.’

Harper could barely hear her. Amara, the girl she’d known for twelve years, shared a bed with, whispered secrets behind greasy hands and giggled over school photos in the yearbook, had a sister? An identical twin she’d never known about. A huge part of her life she’d never shared, when Harper had shared everything about how she felt she was overshadowed by her older brother. A strange sense of betrayal washed over her, like a piece of her had been ripped out and shredded in front of her.

‘Oh,’ was all she managed to utter. ‘I never knew that.’

‘Yeah, it wasn’t something she liked to share. I knew you, though. Harper, right? You were Amara’s best friend.’

Harper nodded. Felicity smiled.

‘We met at her funeral. You might not remember –I only saw you from a distance, drenched in water and being yelled at by our aunt. I went after you, but you’d already driven off. I was in town for another few days after, and I looked for you, but I heard you moved suddenly before I could catch you. And well, I guess you moved here.’

‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Harper mumbled. ‘Sorry, I just –I just couldn’t deal with it back there. Everyone blamed me. And well –I blamed me, too.’

Felicity’s eyebrows raised, creating a small line that crossed over her eyes.

‘You? You weren’t even there when she crashed. That had nothing to do with you.’

It was what Harper had tried to convince herself, through tears of guilt and anguish. She wasn’t in the car when Amara crashed. It wasn’t her fault Amara decided to drive drunk.

‘But I didn’t stop her after the argument. I let her go. I let her get in the car when I knew she was drunk.’ Harper’s voice faltered, like it did every time she recounted what happened. In reality, she could hardly remember it at all. It was a blur of blinding lights and voices yelling in her ear, Amara slamming down her drink and storming off. She didn’t even remember what they’d been fighting over. She’d built a new reality, based off what people had told her.

‘That’s not your fault, Harper. You weren’t her babysitter. Amara was a grown woman.’ Felicity paused thoughtfully. ‘Is that why you left? People were giving you a hard time?’

Harper nodded grimly. ‘Yeah. Your folks showed up at my workplace, made it hard for me to keep working there. I don’t blame them, but I don’t know. Thought it was better to get away.’ Her eyes darted around the restaurant, involuntarily darkening. ‘And now I’m here.’

It was an exponential downgrade from her previous job, where Harper tutored high school and university aged students in a variety of science subjects. She’d enjoyed it, and relished in the gratitude and generous pay checks the parents gave her when their child’s marks increased.

‘No, Harper, no, you can’t be serious. My family scared you off? They don’t blame you anymore, anyway. Hardly even mention you. Most of them got therapy, one way or another. You need to go back.’ Felicity said.

Harper felt herself soften. There was nothing she wanted more than to return to her one-bedroom apartment only a street away from her parents, a job she enjoyed and luxuries like floorboards that didn’t creak when you stepped on them and lights that turned on the first time you flicked the switch.

‘I can’t –not now. Not yet.’

‘Harper. What are you doing?’ The manager was leering over Harper, lines of anger crisscrossed across his face, his hot breath on her neck.

‘Nothing. Um, cleaning this up.’

‘Really? Because it looks like you’re having a chitchat with a customer.’ He turned to Felicity and her friend. ‘I am so sorry about this, ma’am. I assure you; this will not happen again.’ He turned back to Harper. ‘Rodriguez told me about you, but I told him to let you go, because you’re new. Well, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. You’re fired.’

Harper felt her throat thicken for the millionth time that day. Her hands grew clammy, then bunched into fists by her side.

‘No, please,’ she said through gritted teeth.

The manager held up a hand. ‘Don’t. Get your things. And don’t come back.’ Then he strolled off, seldom pausing to glance back at Harper, still standing stunned. Her heart sank into her stomach, where a ball of fury was festering.

‘Are you alright?’ Felicity asked gently.

Harper nodded.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do now, though,’ she said, teary-eyed. She could barely afford rent in her shabby apartment with the salary she was getting paid at the restaurant.

‘I do. Go home, Harper. It’s due time.’

Harper considered it. She gently unstrapped her apron.

Then, she nodded.