“Time you go,” Lacey said. Monica stood, unsteady and confused. It felt like someone had just shut off the television mid-movie.
“Okay.” She flipped open her phone. “Your phone, text, e-mail, the works,” she said.
“Why?” Lacey asked. Monica laughed, searched her sister’s face for signs of humor. She stopped laughing when she saw none. Lacey was completely serious.
“When am I going to see you again?”
“You’re not.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted to meet. We’ve met. The end.” Lacey moved to the front door of the studio, opened it, and waited for Monica to leave. Monica ran to the pad of paper and ripped off the old sheet.
YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS.
Lacey walked over to the pad of paper.
I am.
WHY???????
What did you think? Best friends?
Sisters. Twins.
You’re a stranger.
I don’t have to be.
I’m sorry.
You can’t do this.
Lacey put the pen in her pocket and walked back to the door. She didn’t respond to Monica’s pleas. Tears in her eyes, Monica followed.
“Please? Please?” Lacey turned her head away. “I don’t care if you can’t hear me. Can’t understand me. This isn’t the end. You’re just upset. I forgive you. You’re my twin. I’m not losing you. Do you hear me? I will be back.” Monica lunged forward and kissed Lacey on the cheek. Lacey pulled away and wiped her cheek dry.
“Your parents dumped me like garbage and kept you,” Lacey said. Her speech wasn’t perfect, but Monica understood every word.
“No,” Monica said. “I know they must love you. We have to go to them. They’ll explain everything.”
Lacey marched back to the pad of paper.
They’ve already been here,
Lacey wrote.
“No,” Monica said. “No.”
They came to see Mike. To ask him to keep quiet about ME. To keep you away from ME.
“I don’t care. I don’t care. I want you. I want you.” Lacey shook her head no and gestured for Monica to leave. “Please,” Monica said. “What will it take?”
Lacey went over to the pad of paper again and wrote down her answer. Before Monica could read it, she ripped it off, folded it in half, and thrust it at Monica. Then, she pointed to the door again; she didn’t want Monica to read it in front of her. Mustering every ounce of courage she had, Monica lifted her head and walked out the door. Once outside, she leaned against the brick wall and took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. She opened the poster-sized paper.
Dump them. Dump your parents like they dumped me.
Chapter 21
M
onica stood on the sidewalk, stunned and disoriented, like a loyal patron tossed from her favorite bar eons before closing time. She was clueless about what to do next. Go back to the hotel, back to Joe, start the workshop Saturday, home to Boston Sunday as if nothing had ever happened, as if she were the same old person living the same old life? It wasn’t possible.
She placed her fingertips against her forehead and pressed. She tapped her fingers on her head, tap, tap, tap, like a woodpecker, tap, tap, tap; it didn’t help, too light, not enough pressure, not enough to beat out the noise inside her head, the pain.
She had a twin, a twin, a twin, a twin, an identical twin. This should be a day of celebration. It started that way. Curry chicken salad and Pepsi and writing notes across the table like schoolgirls. Floating in a canoe, peeling off their shoes, and hose, and socks, and bras. Drinking wine in the middle of the day in Lacey’s art studio. Like best friends, like sisters.
Monica didn’t have very many female friends. She was one of those who always felt more comfortable around men. Tina was a friend, up until she dumped her—
Because of her, because of Mike. But where did it go wrong with Lacey? What did she do, what did she say, what didn’t she do, what didn’t she say? What if she called a taxi, waited out here for Lacey no matter how long it took, grabbed her the minute she came out, shoved her into the cab, and yelled, “Drive!” Would that be considered kidnapping?
“Monica?” She removed her hands from her forehead and turned around.
“Mike,” she said. That was all she could manage to say, but a lot more was going on in her head.
Tina’s a bitch. Now I understand why you looked at me as if you saw a ghost. How did you know it was me out here and not Lacey; is it the suit? It has to be the suit.
“Nice flip-flops,” Mike said. “Very pink.”
“It’s a girl,” Monica said with a laugh. “My pumps are in the river,” she added. Mike followed her gaze down the street, as if they could see the river from where they stood. God, he was really, really attractive. Like really sexually attractive. No wonder Tina went around the bend. Was he looking at her feet again? They were normally very cute, but right now they were dirty. Maybe he liked dirty feet. God, she hoped not. That would make him weird and she really, really didn’t want him to be weird. Didn’t Lacey say she tried to sleep with him? Even weirder. Why didn’t he? Did he not find her attractive? That was ridiculous, they were beautiful—
“You should’ve told me,” Monica said. “At the cabin.”
“I know,” Mike said. “I tried. There were so many people around and Tina thought—”
“Tina knew? She knew back then?” Monica had never considered this. Probably because there were way too many things to consider. The shock of meeting her twin had knocked all logic straight out of Monica’s head. She just couldn’t trace all the little footprints—
“Monica, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine everything you’re trying to process.”
“How about after my parents paid you a visit, huh? How about telling me then?” Mike sighed, jammed his hands in his pockets, kicked the sidewalk with the tip of his tennis shoe. She realized it sounded as if they were having a lovers’ quarrel, and even more surreal than that, he was engaging in it too. Was she crazy? Was some kind of mental infection invading her body through the soles of her feet?
“They were very insistent,” Mike said quietly.
“My father got to you too,” Monica said.
“What’s that, now?”
“You stood up to him at the cabin. I noticed that about you.”
It made me think of you doing things to me, very dirty things. Women have sexual fantasies too, you know.
If he only knew the number of times and ways she’d imagined him taking her. They locked eyes. She completely forgot what they’d been talking about. Sexual fantasies were the murderers of intellect.
“Remember, I’m the one who gave you the invitation to the art show,” Mike said. “I
wanted
you to meet Lacey.” How quickly it all came back.
“What exactly did my father say to you?”
“Monica, I can’t—”
“You have to. Please. I have to know.”
“They didn’t say much, okay? Look, you really need to talk to them.”
Monica glanced up at the studio. “She doesn’t want me to say anything just yet,” she said.
She just wants me to abandon them without a word.
“There seems to be a lot of that going around,” Mike said. He gave her a soft smile.
“Tina left,” Monica said. “She went back to California.”
“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “I never led her on.”
“No, I know,” Monica said. The moment hung between them; they maintained eye contact. Mike looked away first.
“So how was it?” he asked.
“It?”
“Meeting your twin.”
“Oh. I love her. I love her.” Monica stopped. She sounded way too fierce. It probably wasn’t normal to love her. Even though she did. She might never be able to explain it to anyone, but she did.
“That’s great,” Mike said.
“She hates me,” Monica said.
“Oh,” Mike said, looking away. He knew her sister better than she did. He probably knew exactly how Lacey felt about her. “I’m sorry about everything,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. The fake interview, the birthmark. I hated freaking you out. I hated you thinking I was some kind of pervert—”
Monica laughed. “It’s okay,” she said. “Lucky for you you’re a very talented artist. Because interviewing is definitely not your thing.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said. “So are you in town for—”
“I have to go,” Monica said. She couldn’t stay. There wasn’t room in her head for everyone. Mike or Joe? Her parents or Lacey? She couldn’t handle any of it right now.
“I might have some shoes, or—”
“I’ll be fine,” Monica said. She stuck out her hand for a shake. He laughed, then took her hand. She pulled him toward her, rolled up on her toes, and kissed him full on the mouth. She pulled back first, not because he wasn’t kissing her back, he certainly was, but because she couldn’t stand the thought that he might push away first, ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, for she had nothing, no explanation to offer. She pulled back as abruptly as she’d gone in, and found herself once again looking up at the studio. Only this time, instead of feeling foolish for being so paranoid, she thought she saw Lacey looking out the window. Without another word to Mike, just a pat on the chest, near the heart, she walked away.
The flip-flops were sticky, the thong digging into her toes. She was dying to take them off but she might step on broken glass, or a discarded needle, or one of many disgusting things she wished she were not thinking about. She kept walking. Kissing Mike had given her some kind of strange adrenaline kick, helped mitigate the pain of Lacey kicking her to the curb. She’d never been dismissed so thoroughly by anyone. She found herself back at the little dog park by the church. If only she had Snookie with her. He was in doggy day care in Boston.
She sat on a bench, not caring about the view or the company as long as she could rest her feet. She zoned out, tried to think of nothing but her dirty toes and the cracked sidewalk above which they hovered. Joe had called so many times her voice mail was full. The workshop was over by now. If they could see her now. Practically barefoot, braless, and aimless. That should be the title of her new book.
B.B.A.
When a hand slid over, holding half a tuna sandwich, it took her a moment to figure out what was happening. The owner of the sandwich, an old black man, sat next to her. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, not even cheap flip-flops. A large shopping cart, filled to the brim with what looked like junk, was parked next to him. He had one hand resting protectively across the cart, the other was stretched out, offering Monica the sandwich.
“Oh, no, thank you,” she said. He looked at her feet. He jabbed the sandwich at her again.
“Take it,” he said. “You never know when the next one’s a-comin’.”
“Thank you,” Monica said. “But I’m not homeless, just hopeless.” She didn’t know why she said that; the absurdity of blurting out something like that made her laugh. She glanced at the old man again. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being homeless,” she said. He withdrew the sandwich, unwrapped a tiny corner of it, and began to nibble.
“Mmm, mmm,” he said. “Sure is good.”
“Seriously,” Monica said, pointing in the direction of her hotel. “I’m staying at the Marriott.” He looked at her feet again.
“So why you hopeless? Lost your boyfriend? Dog? Job?” Monica shook her head. No, no, no. “You gotta boyfriend, dog, job?” Monica nodded. Yes, yes, yes. “Then why you so hopeless?”
“I lost my sister,” Monica said. “Yesterday I didn’t even know I had her and I’ve already lost her.” Saying it out loud shook loose the sadness Monica could feel clinging to her. She started to cry. A second later, the sandwich was back in her face. She tried to stop crying, but still refused the sandwich. The old man put the sandwich on the bench in the space between them and whipped out a napkin from his pocket. Just when Monica thought he was going to offer it to her, he began twisting it with his thick, calloused fingers. A few seconds later, he’d transformed it into a rose. He held it up. Monica wiped her eyes, laughed, and took the flower.
“Now that’s hope, darlin’,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m Henry,” he said. “But most folks call me Doc.”
“Nice to meet you, Doc,” Monica said. “I’m Monica.”
“So what’s your job?” Doc asked.
“I’m a motivational speaker,” Monica said. She burst into tears again. Doc just nodded.
“You want to know a secret?” he said. Monica sniffed, nodded. “Ain’t nobody got nothin’ figured out. Nobody.”
“That’s oddly comforting,” Monica said.
“Don’t I know it,” Doc said. “Don’t I know it.” He offered her the sandwich again. This time, she took it.
“So how’d you lose a sistah?” Doc asked.
“I don’t know,” Monica said. “She’s mad at me in a way, I guess.”
“Well, now, everybody gets mad. I get mad all the time. Don’t worry, I ain’t mad right now. But I get mad. I sure get mad.”
“Me too.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll get glad again.”
“I hope so.”
“You know so. You bettah know so. Whatever you gotta do, you do it.”
“You’re right,” Monica said, pulling the folded easel paper closer. “I think you’re right.”
“I is,” Doc said. “I sure is. Except when I’m wrong. Problem is, I don’t always know the difference.”
“Me neither,” Monica said, handing him back the rest of the sandwich. “Me neither.”