“It was a vicious fight. I think about a boy. I can’t remember. I’m not sure I knew at the time. They slapped each other. That stopped the fight. Stopped it cold. They went off to their rooms.
“The next day they went into Detroit and got those horrendous tattoos. Those vulgar barbed-wire bracelets. To remind them that this was the hand that slapped her sister. Or some baloney like that. It was a promise they’d never fight like that again. I don’t think they ever have. Not to this day.”
Not to this day. She thought they were both alive.
Unless Emily had told her sister what I’d told her at the county fair, it was Emily who had called. And it was Evelyn’s body that had washed up on shore.
“Where did you say Emily’s sister lived?”
“Last I heard, Seattle.”
“Anything more exact than that?” I asked. “Do you have an address?”
“I wish I knew. Bernice helps me with the birthday cards. I just sent one to Emily in Connecticut. But the last address we have for Evelyn is an awfully seedy motel in Seattle. Bernice googled it, and we saw.”
She leaned forward. “What business is this of yours? Remind me, dear.”
She’d said dear like a witch in a fairy tale. Threatening and insulting.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry . . .”
All through my visit, it seemed as if she could turn the lights on and off behind her eyes. Now they’d clouded over again. Night, night. Nobody home.
“I’m tired,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to . . . thank you.” I stood up from the pink and white couch, looking behind me to see if I’d dirtied or messed it up. “It was kind of you to let me visit.”
“Remind me why you wanted to meet me?”
“Curiosity,” I said.
“Killed the cat,” she said. I heard a note in her voice—like Emily’s. I felt another chill. I shivered. The old woman noticed. She liked it. She tilted her chin and laughed almost girlishly. She was present again, for the moment.
“I’ll be leaving now,” I said. “Do you want me to . . . call someone?”
“She’s leaving!” said Mrs. Nelson.
I heard footsteps. A tall and still beautiful woman in her fifties wearing dark blue nursing scrubs and a tangle of gray dreads tied behind her neck appeared in the doorway.
“This is Bernice,” said Mrs. Nelson. “And this is—?”
“Stephanie,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Bernice.”
Bernice gave me a neutral, forgiving look. I sensed that she had been monitoring her employer’s conversation and approved of, or at least hadn’t minded, our talk. First Mrs. Nelson, then Bernice held out their hands for me to shake. I shook their hands and thanked them.
Bernice walked me to the door then closed it softly behind her, and we stood on the front porch.
I said, “I understand the police spoke with you. I’m so sorry about Emily.”
“If it is Emily,” Bernice said. “They never could tell those girls apart, maybe not even in death.”
All this new information, these new theories and new suspicions were a lot to process at once. I thought of Miles, which always calms me.
I asked Bernice, “Did you mention your suspicions to the police? Did you tell them about Evelyn?”
“I let them think what they want to. This is Detroit, baby. Rich white Detroit, but still . . . Best not to contradict or come up with anything new. The less you mess with the police, the better off you are. I tried to call Emily and figure out what was what, but she never picked up her cell. Her mama’s better not knowing. I don’t want the poor thing to suffer any more than she already has. Sometimes she thinks she has two daughters, sometimes none, sometimes one . . . I can never predict what will stick with her and what will slide right off. Lots of times she surprises me with what she remembers . . . Did she mention the car?”
“What car?”
“She remembers that. Evelyn stole her car a while back. Both the girls had car keys. And one of them got into the garage and drove the car away in the middle of the night. My bet, it was Evelyn. Emily can rent any car she wants. Am I right?”
I nodded. That sounded right, and yet it made everything even more confusing. I wanted to stay here and ask Bernice questions all day. At the same time I wanted to hurry back to my hotel room and think about what I’d heard.
“Mrs. Nelson was hysterical. She kept asking me how she would get around. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that she hadn’t driven for years. I said we’d take taxis, like we always did. I told her not to worry. I helped her send Emily’s birthday card, just like I have for years.”
“She’s lucky to have you, Bernice,” I said.
Bernice made a face. I was afraid that I’d insulted her. But she wasn’t thinking about me.
“She deserves some good luck,” she said. “She’s had such bad luck with those girls. In the islands, we’re careful around twins. You watch yourself.” She listened for sounds from inside the house. “I’ve got to get back in there . . . There’s no telling what she’ll . . . You have a safe trip back.”
There was no time to ask her what she meant by being careful and watching myself.
Once I left the suburbs, it was a bumpy ride. Considering that Detroit was the home of the auto, I was surprised that the roads were so bad. Steering around the potholes made me focus and kept me from freaking out over what I’d just heard.
Emily was a twin.
I was so jumpy that when I pulled into the rental place and the guys in uniform swarmed all over the car, one of them asked if I was okay.
I said, “I’m fine! Why is everyone asking?”
I got rid of the car and took the shuttle to the Detroit Metro airport hotel. I was glad I hadn’t gone for the cheapest option, glad there was a minibar, glad I could drink two little bottles of bourbon, one right after the other. I was glad the bed was nice and clean so I could get under the covers with all my clothes on. Glad I was together enough to call down and ask the desk clerk to phone my room in plenty of time for an early flight.
I pulled the blanket over my head and closed my eyes. The Diane Arbus photo of the twins swam up from the darkness. I saw it more clearly, I remembered it better than Emily’s mother’s snapshots. I could still see their party dresses, but I couldn’t recall what Emily and her sister were wearing in the family photos. They weren’t dressed identically. Was that something their mother told me? She never dressed them alike. Or was that something I’d figured out? What difference did it make?
The last picture seemed to have been taken at their high school graduation. They were wearing caps and gowns. They both looked young and hopeful.
What happened after that? Mrs. Nelson thought Evelyn was in Seattle. But she had no address. How long before the old woman forgot them both? Was this something Emily knew and counted on to help her do what she was doing?
Whatever that was.
I could have reacted in all sorts of ways. I got angry. As if I was the one who’d been wronged. I knew some people might fault me for sleeping with Emily’s husband. But I felt as if she’d done something to me first, tricked me, used me . . . not telling me she was a twin. Letting me and Sean—or maybe only me—think that she was dead.
And then deciding to let me know that she was alive.
The dominant twin. She had all the power.
Did Sean know she had a twin? He’d never mentioned it. Had she managed to keep that secret even from her husband?
I lay there thinking of how to let Emily know that I knew.
After a while it came to me. Emily had slipped up. She shouldn’t have let me know that she read my blog. That was how I could get in touch with her. It gave me a little control, a way to be heard. And I didn’t have to worry about Sean, who didn’t read my blog.
I lay awake working out the wording to my blog post. How could I let Emily know that I’d been to her mother’s and I knew her secret—but without revealing what it was?
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Stephanie's Blog
On Closure
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