TWINS

                                                      1102wds

TWINS

Walking on legs like a zombie, eyes clouded with the film of tears, throat with a large pit stuck inside causing me to swallow over and over, I moved slowly toward the casket shrouded in white gauze and stared down into what was my face. There was the same dark curly hair, pinned back and, by some mortician’s handiwork, face powered white, lips like a slit on a red dress. Janice, my twin, the other part of me, lay there with eyes closed in a purple dress that had been her favorite, saved for special occasions. Electric shocks kept surging through my body as I stared into the coffin.

We had shared fifty-two years of happiness and angst, growing up in a home with a sickly, raging mother, cold, indifferent father. We clung to each other like two rabbits in a cage. And what had separated her from me—death—the great separator of all things. Flashes of when we were young—clinging to one another when we hid in the bedroom, trying to drown out the noise of our parents fighting with the sounds from the black & white TV of the fifties, tying our pigtails together to feel what it would be like not to be able to separate.

We had been born only 1 minute apart and identical, except for the arch of our eyebrows—mine being slightly higher and then, along the way, slight scars marked our bodies in distinct ways so one could tell us apart. One above Janice’s lip when she had tripped and fallen on a broken sidewalk. Our mother went screaming upstairs to her sister, Aunt Bea, who called the family doctor. In those days he would come to the house. He stitched her up with the expertise of a modern day surgeon and the scar was hardly visible. There was one under my breast from a biopsy in my thirties, another on the lobe of my ear from a piercing that went wrong.

We were separated in kindergarten, the principal thinking it would be confusing to have us both in the same class. Janice was more studious then me and excelled in almost all her subjects, while I, suffering from anxiety, found it difficult to concentrate, except for English, which I loved and began writing at any early age. But my lack of confidence and perseverance only left me with the ability to type and so I spent my years at dull, clerk-typist part-time jobs. Janice, instead, became a legal secretary and worked through her married years until both her son and daughter were out of the house. We had different taste in men so we never really played any jokes on our boyfriends. But Janice had more common sense, marrying a kind, devoted accountant, while I picked a handsome, irresistible alcoholic who made our days and nights similar to the ones of wine and roses. He eventually died, not of alcohol, but cigarettes, while Janice’s husband succumbed to a mal-functioning kidney.

We both loved scrabble and spent many a night over the board searching for the best spots to place our tiles. I did win most of the time since my writing had broadened my vocabulary. And then there were Brooklyn street games like Hit the Penny and Hopscotch. And we were never lonely—always having someone to confide in, laugh with and of course, cry with.

 “Aunt Clare.” I felt two hands on my shoulders and turned around to see my niece, Lydia, black mascara running down her cheeks and my nephew Steven, next to her. As we clung to each other it passed through my mind—how would they ever be able to keep looking at me and not see her?  How would they bear it? Would I lose them as well? Then I noticed my daughter, Katy, who had now joined us, crying and holding on to Lydia and Steven. Their tears were mingling and so fluent it could have filled a small fountain.

After our mom passed from a congenital heart condition some 7 years ago, dad got remarried—a wealthy woman in Palm Beach, Florida, and was having the time of his life living it up at her expense. I kept watching the entrance, wondering when he would show. Just then I saw him walk in with a classy lady that had the brightest, reddest hair I had ever seen, a flabby arm dangling through his. He was wearing a dark navy blue suit and matching tie and looked so much younger. He waved but I didn’t wave back, thinking a wave was not a proper greeting at such a time.

The priest of no domination came toward us and then turned to all the mourners. “Friends and family,” he began, “we are gathered here today to honor this life that has passed into another.”  Being an atheist, somehow I still managed not to smirk. It definitely was not a time for smirking. “So we pray for our sister who has left us today….”  I felt the priest’s hand on mine. It was very warm, almost burning. “We pay homage,” he continued, “to the twin of another dear sister.” Why was I feeling so light, as if my body might be able to float. It was a strange sensation. Lydia and Steven had moved a little and I couldn’t seem to reach them. Katy was still close enough for me to grab her bag. Her face grew dimmer and I tried to pull her closer by her bag.  “Father,”  I said, “something is happening.” “Oh my dear, of course it is—you lost a piece of you—a big, big part of yourself.” I nodded. I needed to lie down as I was feeling dizzy, but there was no place to lie. I moved closer to the coffin and then…I began to feel myself slipping backwards…I saw Janice, no, myself—or was it Janice—walk over to the priest and place her head on his shoulder.

His face was lit by the plentiful of candles around the pulpit. Perhaps I was feeling dizzy from all the incense. “So today we say our goodbye to Clare, the beloved sister of Janice.”  I felt myself slowly slip into the coffin, satin caressing my bare arm. I wanted to cry “No, it’s a mistake!” I wanted to establish who I was, who the sister in the coffin really was. But my lips were sealed, sealed with the silence of the non-existent. And the last thing I thought when the darkness totally engulfed me—What did it really matter?