Twin Stranger

Erica felt herself being lured into the library after noticing a display in the window promoting local authors. The recommended books were at the far end of the library, directly across from the front doors, and feeling it was sacrilegious not to browse the aisles as she walked down them, she let her eyes scan the spines and covers neatly organized on the shelves.

Seeing her own face on the back cover of a book caused Erica to freeze. She felt the world tilt as it does when your brain is presented with information that should not be possible. Alarmed confusion tunneled her vision and amplified her hearing. She hoped for a loud sound, either a cough or a dropped book, to break the spell, but the library remained silent. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the picture, absorbing every detail, studying every nuance as if the image were novel and not one she encountered daily. She blinked several times, but the face stubbornly remained hers. 

A deep breath and a self admonishing chuckle allowed her to resume her walk down the aisle. “I’m being ridiculous” she thought. She had of course encountered any number of uncanny doppelgängers over her 33 years. Usually it was a single feature: tightly cork-screwed copper hair; the arch of an eyebrow; the wide toothy grin. But seeing all of the features that felt so distinctly hers displayed on the face of someone who should be a stranger, made her pause and turn back. 

It wouldn’t hurt to read the author’s bio on the back flap, perhaps this was a distant cousin. She pursed her lips instantly doubting this theory. Both of Erica’s parents were only children, as were both sets of grandparents. A statistically unusual occurrence, especially considering her Waspy heritage. Her paternal grandfather technically had had a sibling, but his brother had died of small pox as an infant before her grandpa Allan had even been born, an all too common tragedy of the early 1900s. As for the rest of her family, military deployments and struggles with fertility contributed to a rather stark family tree. 

Erica strode quickly back to the shelf allowing herself only a quick cursory glance at the face, her face, that filled the entire back cover, before grabbing the book and opening it to the last page, revealing the same picture, but smaller, above the author’s bio:

Emerson Simon-Bartlett is a Professor of Developmental Psychology at the University of California, Davis. In this personal account, Dr. Simon-Bartlett tells about her own experiences with early loss, and how the death of her twin sister at age three, due to complications during heart surgery to fix a congenital defect, inspired her lifelong dedication to addressing early trauma and loss. Her research has informed therapeutic practices throughout the world…

The biography went on, but Erica stopped reading as the book slipped from her fingers.

The memory came in a rush: It was a hot, vivid blue-sky day. She was sitting in a warm shallow pool, happily pouring water into different sized colorful plastic cups. She looked to her right knowing she would be greeted by her own smiling face, sunlight sparkling on copper curls, and tiny water droplets splashed across rosy cheeks. 

“Emmy, give Rika lello cup please.”

“Here go, Rika! Emmy give lello cup. Lello cup has magic med’cine, will fix Rika’s owie”

The little girl solemnly passes the yellow cup, then gently pats Erica’s chest.

“Tank you, me! I all better!”

“Welcome me!”

Both girls giggle at their family joke, created when the twins were about a year old. They could each say their own name, but hadn’t been able to say each other’s names yet, and would simply refer to their sister as “me.” They understood that they weren’t the same person, of course, but the shorthand caught on and remained in the extended family’s vernacular, making the phrase "hey me!" very common among the adults as an expression of the closeness they felt for one another.

Back in the library, Erica gently runs her fingers down the center of her own chest, in the same place the little girl from her memory had patted her, knowing that under the fabric, a red scar marred her otherwise smooth skin. 

Other memories crowded her mind, all of them dim and lonely when compared to the sunny swim day. At four years old she had been obsessed with an imaginary sister. Or that’s what her parents called her, “imaginary.” But Erica knew she was real, her dreams and memories were so vivid, how could they possibly be make believe? She knew that if she could just tell the stories right, then her parents would believe her, and maybe help her find her lost sister.

The more Erica insisted, the more her parents worried, eventually taking her to a child psychologist, where she played with dolls and acted out tea parties, addressing the empty chair across from her as “lost me.” The psychologist had told her parents that imaginary friends were completely normal at this age and they should be happy to have such a sweet and creative little girl. But maybe some real friends would be helpful, perhaps try enrolling her in preschool? 

Erica closed her eyes tight and roughly scrubbed her face with her palms and fingertips, not caring that she was smudging her makeup. She made herself wait through four rounds of 8-count breathing before looking down at the book at her feet, willing the face to magically morph into the stranger it should show. But of course, it was still her face.

Deep in her chest, under her repaired heart, she felt the stirrings of funeral laughter: uncontrollable; loud; verging on hysterical. Leaving the book on the floor where it fell, Erica clamped both hands over her mouth and made for the doors, gasps or maybe they were sobs, leaking through her fingers.

Once outside she doubled over with laughter, her face contorting painfully to accommodate the hysteria forcing its way out of her body. Tears and snot streamed down her face, making a muddy mess of what was left of her makeup. She carried on like that for several minutes, unable to care about the looks from passersby, slowly calming until all that was left was an itchy wheezing in her lungs. Sniffing violently, she dug into her purse for a tissue, wiped her eyes and nose, and settled sunglasses on her face.

She chuckled again while shaking her head at her own ridiculousness. Then rolled back her shoulders and took off down the street wondering if her favorite coffee shop had any more of those maple scones that she liked so much.