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Duality

Heather Rae Nelson

    Most of the world has a spiritual concept of balance for the self. The Taoists used yin and yang in harmonious conjunction. The Germans believed their doppelganger could foretell disaster. I could wake up and stare at my spiritual balance snoring in the bed next to me.
    Every part of me is a genetic anomaly. Red hair makes up less than two percent of the population. Type B negative blood accounts for less than ten percent of the blood supply. Identical, mirrored twins with red hair have practically the same odds as lotto numbers. The freckles on my left shoulder matched the ones on her right. I could arch my left eyebrow; she could only arch her right. I never needed to look in the mirror to suss out my appearance; she was across the room, trying to make me laugh.
    My entire life was a competition against myself. I knew how fast I was and how smart I could be, I just had to watch Erica. Our mirror reflected our differences to the world, but to us we were the same. I broke my wrist, for three months she complained the opposite one hurt. She cut her hair short, suddenly my ponytail felt strange. The mirror was always there. Erica was the perfect athlete, universally adored, holding court at her lunch table. I huddled with the tortured artists, giving cheerleaders seductive looks and never meeting my potential. Still that connection remained; a sudden chill, an unexplained smile. Her subconscious gift to me.
    As children we would often sneak into the other’s bed, even that few feet of space between us was too much. The gap between our beds was an abyss. I would put my hand over her heart, feel the ebb and flow of her blood beneath my fingertips. I would hold my breathe and feel my own. We were always in synch.
    Our foray in adulthood faltered. I wanted to go back to my grunge roots in Seattle. I was convinced that my real parents were living in some amazing loft apartment with a Gibson guitar, waiting for me to return. Erica was going to sparkle in the pre medical program at Riverside. Everyone said the separation was necessary, healthy even. We needed time to learn to be our selves, whole and alone. I was incensed at this, I knew who the hell I was. I saw the other half of me across the kitchen table in her nightshirt and socks every morning. But I left all the same.
    For someone who had never experienced isolation, this was a shock. Twins are an Event. For most of my life I never arrived, I made an entrance. Now I could slip in unnoticed. I guiltily enjoyed the fact that my face was my own, my accomplishments never shared.
    I look at these photos now and wonder what I missed. Her smile seems different now, her freckles are more pronounced. There is a photo from our first Christmas back, there is a solemnity in your face, nothing ever quite reaches your eyes. The glitter has dulled. You smile for me though.
    I ran my hand down your ribcage that night. I counted the vertebrae in your spine, there were too many. Collarbones were begging to be forced through, to give you some blood for your efforts. I knew what you were doing in that bathroom. Worry was casually swatted away, denial buzzed in my ears. I heard you fall. I heard the faint rumble of bone hitting wood, skin slapping tile. A personal earthquake I could never expect. The crash of ceramics brought our mother swooping, the sound a herald of my Temple falling. Seconds went by, I was in the bathroom next to you. You didn’t lock the door, maybe you wanted to be caught. I try to look in your eyes, gain my focus, but all I see are the whites. I grab your wrists, I don’t know who is shaking anymore. Your trembles merge with mine. Someone yells, maybe it’s me. I hear the phone dial those three dreaded numbers. The sync is gone. I don’t feel her anymore. The wail of sirens merges with my mother’s cries into a hideous symphony. Men in uniforms play Frankenstein. Harnessing electricity to bring my baby doll back. A shout of “Clear!” hangs like some broken toy off the shelf. Nothing is clear, everything is white. The walls of the waiting room, the doctor’s coat, my sister’s skin. They all merge. I go into my sister’s room. I come out of it. I can’t bear to be in that black hole, sucking out what is left of me. She took it all, I’ll let her have my heartbeat. A nurse gasps, no one told her that my sister was a twin. I have now become my own ghost.

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