Beautiful Lies (9 page)

“I think so, yeah,” he says. “You two … switched?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head, like what I’m saying can’t possibly be true. “Alice, come on. Nobody would buy that.”

I almost laugh out loud. “You’ve never even met Rachel. You’ve never seen the two of us together. We’re identical.”

“Okay, but still, there must be tiny differences. I’m sure your family—”

“My family doesn’t know anything. We’ve been doing it for years, and we’ve been getting away with it. Robin, my aunt and uncle think that
I’m
Rachel. They think that Alice ran off last night, so they aren’t worried. But they should be,” I continue, my voice rising in panic, “because Rachel would never do anything like that. Something’s wrong. I know it is.”

He presses his lips together in thought. “I assume this has something to do with the bruises on your face?”

When he says the word—“bruises”—I flinch again. I can feel my eyes growing puffier by the minute. I have no idea how I’m going to hide this from my aunt and uncle;
makeup can only do so much. I hesitate. “I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it will sound crazy. It’s not, though. It’s true.”

“Alice—”

“Rachel and I have a connection,” I blurt. “It’s because we’re twins. But it’s not just that, Robin—we’re different than other twins. I’ve told you before. We shared the same gestational space. That isn’t how it normally works.” I stop, watching him, trying to appraise his expression. He can be tough to read.

“You shared the same gestational space,” he echoes.

I nod. “Yes.”

“But isn’t that true for all twins?”

“No.” When I shake my head, the room goes a little fuzzy, and I begin to feel dizzy. I have to wiggle my toes in my shoes, reassuring myself of the floor beneath my feet in order to remain steady. “During their mother’s pregnancy, normal twins will each have their own amniotic sac and their own placenta. Rachel and I shared them.”

As he nods, I imagine him visualizing what I’m describing. “Okay,” he says, “but that can’t be so unusual, can it?”

“Yes,” I say, “it’s unusual. Not unheard of, but rare—only about one percent of all twin pregnancies. And when Rachel and I were born eighteen years ago, medical technology wasn’t nearly as advanced as it is today. At least half of all monochorionic monoamniotic twins didn’t make it.”

Robin squints at me. There’s a hint of satisfaction in his gaze. “But you two survived. And you’re … perfect.”

“No, Robin. We aren’t perfect. We’re freaks.”

“Freaks?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

I shake my head. “Think about it. First of all, we’re genetically identical. That’s not so rare, but
monochorionic monoamniotic
twins? That’s far less likely. Add to that the fact that both of us survived when we were born almost twenty years ago, and it makes us very lucky, to say the least. But now think about this: even though monochorionic monoamniotic twins are genetically identical, they often look different from each other once they’re born. Because of the complications from sharing one placenta and one amniotic sac, they sometimes develop at different rates in the womb—with one twin taking most of the nutrients from the other. Yet somehow, with almost no medical intervention, Rachel and I look exactly alike. What do you think the chances are, Robin?”

He studies me for a few seconds before responding. “And you think there’s some sort of … what? A psychic connection between the two of you?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “It’s been that way our entire lives. I can sense her. I can tell when she’s not okay. And sometimes it becomes … physical.”

“Physical how? What do you mean?”

I gesture to my face. “I didn’t do this to myself, Robin.
Nobody hurt me, either. This happened because somebody is hurting Rachel.”

Robin looks around the room, almost like he’s expecting a camera crew to jump out from behind a chair and tell him this is all a big joke. Except that it’s not funny.

“Has this kind of thing ever happened to you before?”

I nod. “Lots of times. And there have been so many little things too, things that I sense before they happen to her.”

“Like what?” He pauses, reaching toward me. “Come here.” He takes my hand and tugs me onto the couch. I sit down beside him, let him wrap his arms around me, and rest my head against his chest. Our fight seems so ridiculous now that we’re together again, his body warm and comforting, the pressure from his embrace somehow slowing my panic, absorbing my fear. I’m so grateful that he isn’t laughing or dismissing me entirely. Instead, he’s being kind; he’s listening, trying to understand. He knows me, and he knows I wouldn’t lie to him, especially not about something so serious.

“When we turned twelve, my aunt and uncle bought us new bikes for our birthdays. Rachel was so excited, way more than I was. It was a really pretty day, and my aunt and uncle told us we could go for a ride right away. The bikes were in our backyard, and before Rachel was even out the door, I
knew
she shouldn’t go. I didn’t know why, but I was certain something awful was about to happen. But there wasn’t much time for me to do anything, and I was so scared that I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know how else to stop her,
so I grabbed one of my aunt’s porcelain figurines from the mantel and I threw it against the wall. That got everyone’s attention real quick. My aunt flipped out. There was glass everywhere, and I guess the figurine—it was shaped like a bird—was some kind of collector’s item, so she started screaming at me, asking what the hell was the matter with me. But I didn’t care, because Rachel didn’t go outside and get on her bike.”

When Robin speaks, I can hear his smile. “That’s so … so
Alice
of you.” He holds me closer.

“You’re right,” I say. “You really know me, don’t you?”

He rests his head against mine. “I guess I do.”

We sit in silence for a moment, and I can tell we’re both thinking about our fight from a couple of weeks ago. I was the one who started it. We’d been seeing each other for three months, but there was so much he wouldn’t tell me about himself. I still didn’t even know his last name. We were at his apartment one afternoon, and I started looking through his mail while he was in another room, trying to figure it out, but everything was addressed to
Current Resident
.

When he confronted me, I got so angry—I was crying, begging him to tell me why he kept so many secrets. “How can you be my boyfriend if I don’t even know who you
are
?” I’d demanded. I was throwing the mail all over the room, making a huge mess.

And then he said the most awful thing. At least, it seemed like the most awful thing at the time. “That’s the problem,
Alice,” he told me. “I can’t be your boyfriend.” He wouldn’t say anything else, even though I begged him. I finally left; that was the last time I’d seen him until today.

“So what happened?” he finally asks. “After you broke the figurine and your aunt went nuts, did you tell Rachel not to get on her bike?”

I nod. “Yes. And by then I’d made such a scene that my uncle finally went out to look at the bike, I guess to make sure it was safe for her to ride. He was just patronizing me, I knew. But after a few minutes he came back inside, and he had this weird look on his face. Our bikes had come with these canvas pouches attached to their handlebars—you know what I mean, right? So we could have a place to keep stuff while we rode?”

Robin shrugs. “Sure.”

“Well, I guess the bikes had been parked in our garage for a while, maybe a week or so. And Rachel’s bike … there was a hornet’s nest inside the pouch. They’d burrowed inside and built a nest while it was hidden. If she’d gone for a ride right then—if I hadn’t done something to stop her—she could have been swarmed.” I pause. “But I did stop her. And she was safe.”

Robin exhales a deep breath. “Because you knew something would happen to her if she got on that bike.”

“Yes. But there have been other things too, Robin.” I rush on. “The summer before last, when we were sixteen, Rachel did a bunch of work in our yard. It was my aunt’s birthday,
and she wanted to do something nice for her. So she spent a whole afternoon pulling weeds beside our house, and when my aunt came home that evening, Rachel was excited to surprise her. But my aunt was worried; she told Rachel there’d been a ton of poison ivy growing among the weeds; my aunt had been meaning to have it sprayed for weeks. Rachel had been working in shorts and a tank top all day. She hadn’t showered yet.”

Robin shudders. “Well, that’s unfortunate. She must have been a mess.”

“She was, yeah. Even though she showered as soon as she found out, it was already too late. She woke up the next morning covered; she even had it between her toes. But here’s the weird thing: I got it too. I got it all over me, just like Rachel.” I stare at him. “I wasn’t in the yard at all that day, Robin. I was at my grandma’s.”

He lowers his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. But I’m not making it up.”

“And you think she’s in trouble now because of what’s happening to you,” he finishes for me. “You want to figure out how to save her.”

“Yes.”

“But Alice, do you have any clue at all where she might be? Do you even know where to start?” He sits up straighter, pulling away so he can look me in the eye. “Rachel is her own person. You might be her twin, but that doesn’t make you responsible for her.”

But it does,
I think. He doesn’t get it because he doesn’t know everything—not yet. “Robin,” I say, “I think it could be my fault that she’s missing. Whoever took her … I think they meant to take me. Do you understand? I
am
responsible; it should be
me
who’s missing, not Rachel. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Robin pulls farther away, but I don’t get the sense that he’s trying to distance himself from me as much as he’s simply trying to find space, to think about everything I’m telling him. Without a word, he gets up and walks toward the kitchenette. He opens the refrigerator and stands before it, staring inside.

The fridge is almost bare except for a lone stick of butter on the top shelf, a six-pack of light beer, and a wooden palate smeared with half a dozen shades of oil paint. Despite the glaring light from the fridge, the apartment otherwise dim, I can guess each color on sight: Burnt sienna. Cadmium orange. Cerulean blue. Chromium oxide green. Raw umber. Gold ochre. He grabs a beer, twists it open, and turns to me. “You want one?”

I shake my head. The bruises around my eyes feel damp and hot in the warm, moist air of the apartment. My whole body aches. Still, just being here with him makes me feel … different. Safer, maybe? Protected? But that’s not it—not exactly.

I feel loved. Being with Robin makes me feel loved, despite everything else I’ve done, all the things that make it hard for me to stand myself right now.

Before he shuts the door, Robin reaches into the freezer and removes a plastic bag of frozen tater tots. “Here.” He walks back across the room to me. I give a little yelp of pain as he presses the bag to my face. “Shh,” he says, sitting down again. “It’s okay, Alice. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

I can feel the individual hairs on his arms brushing against my face. I want to lean into him and close my eyes shut more tightly, to fall asleep and wake up in a new day where none of this is happening. I want to believe him that everything will be okay. But I can’t; I don’t. Instead, I start to cry.

“Shh,” he repeats. He pulls the bag of tater tots away, tilts my head upward, and stares down at me. I can tell he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“What?” I ask, pulling back a little. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

His eyes crinkle at their corners, even as his grin wavers. “This is going to sound weird,” he says, “but you look so pretty when you cry.”

He’s right; it is a weird thing to say. But I don’t respond; I just lean into him again and let him hold me while I cry. Despite everything that has gone wrong in the past day, I have never felt so protected. I clutch his shirt in my fists, rubbing my thumb across the threads woven into soft fabric, unwilling to let go even when my phone begins to ring in my bookbag. I ignore it, squeezing my eyes shut more tightly instead, trying to pretend that it is only the two of us, that
the rest of the world doesn’t exist, that there is nothing beyond his front door.

After a few moments, Robin breaks the silence, his somber tone yanking me back to reality. “Alice,” he says, “I don’t know how I can help you. I’ve never met your sister, and I definitely didn’t see her last night. I didn’t go to the fair. I was here all night, alone.”

“But you called me,” I say. “You don’t have a phone.”

He pauses. “A friend stopped by.”

“Which friend?” Before he has a chance to answer, something else occurs to me. “Robin, my aunt and uncle took my phone away last month. You knew that. I’ve had Rachel’s phone since last night; you called
her
phone, not mine.” Even as the thought materializes in my mind that he might have intended to call my sister, not me—that maybe something has been going on between them that I don’t know about—I try to dismiss it. The possibility is too painful to confront.

“You gave me her number,” he says quickly—maybe too quickly.

“I did?” I shake my head. “I don’t remember that.”

“Alice, come on.” He gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t get crazy on me.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. But who was here with you last night?”

“Alice, seriously,” he says, ignoring my question, “I know you’re worried about Rachel, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to look for her on your own. You need to go to the police.” He stops for a minute, thinking. “Wait—you were
about to tell me something a little while ago, before I interrupted you. What was it?”

I sit up, pulling away from him. I think of my dream from the night before, my sister’s words.
Don’t. Tell. Anyone.

Aside from Rachel, Robin is the only person in the world who knows my true identity right now. I’ve already told him that much. I need to tell him the rest.